


Backwards

by Airanke



Series: Lascivious Ophidian [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Also I refuse, Asphyxiation, Attempted suffocation, DUMB LIKE THAT LMAO, F/M, Hi I slapped my own ship tag in here because I'm, I R E F U S E, I don't know if I tagged everything but I did my best LOL, R e f u s e with all my being, TW suffocation, To call Thrall Go'el, but there you go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airanke/pseuds/Airanke
Summary: Bodies were not meant to twist this way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lord have mercy, this is my first "finished" story for my character Amita (my WoW druid... I love her.... and Vol'jin but that's another story LMAO) within her universe, which I call Lascivious Ophidian. "Backwards" is kind of an AU within the LO universe. I won't ramble too much about this here, but with Tumblr being all doofy with its new set of rules, I'm going to try and post more of my works to AO3. I have a lot of memes and stuff that I can post too (most of it is OCs but they're all WoW OCs so I consider it fanfiction??? IDK though, but a lot of the memes have to do with canon / non-canon WoW ships, especially Vo'jin x Sylvanas, Tyrande, or Jaina LMAO I like those ships man don't @ ME).
> 
> This is also my second or third time writing smut in its entirety, and I feel like the story itself is a little janky but here, have this, it's not that great but I want to post it here to have it SOMEWHERE it can't be yoinked away from me because of bad algorithms and what not.
> 
> Normally, I have pretty snazzy titles for my chapters but because I wrote this as if it were meant to be one whole thing, my chapters won't get those snazzy titles. It's 80 pages in total, and I'm just splitting it into 4 parts / chapters for easier reading.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it regardless!

__

 

 

> _For everything exists and not_
> 
> _one sigh nor smile nor tear,_
> 
> _one hair nor particle_
> 
> _of dust, not one can pass away._
> 
> ~ William Blake

* * *

 

None of this was right.

 

She was looking at the sky, but her feet were digging into the dirt. She was on her back, she was _sure_ of it, so her toes shouldn’t be able to dig into the ground the way they were.

 

There were noises. Lots of noises. Her vision swam. Her breaths were heavy like there was a weight on her chest and she couldn’t make it go away. Something was whispering to her - was it the wind? Or, was it a scream? Was it ringing, maybe it was the Nightmare.

 

Maybe _this_ was a nightmare.

 

Amita tried to move - she did, really, she tried, but a fiery pain shot up her spine, blurring her vision even more. Her arms felt numb; legs, numb; chest, numb; fingers, numb; everything, everything was numb.

 

The only thing she could latch onto that kept her in the belief that she was still in reality and not some strange sort of limbo or dream, was the throbbing ache in her lower back. The druid _knew_ something was wrong, but she was unable to distinguish what it was. Her body? Her mind? She _felt like_ she was on some sort of medicine that caused her to become incredibly relaxed.

 

Oh.

 

Now _that_ sound was a scream. She could have sworn it was her name.

 

A shape appeared in front of her. It was formless, at first, and like a bright light.

 

Soon, a wistful smile crossed her lips.

 

It was Gonk.

 

The raptor Loa looked at her with unreadable eyes; she smiled at him nonetheless. Someone was moving her body. Someone was speaking to her. They sounded like they were begging, and when she was lifted, her eyes were on level with the raptor as her head lolled lifelessly back.

 

A quiet laugh escaped her. Her words were soft as she spoke, not to whoever had lifted her, nor those who had surrounded her, but to the spirit;

 

“Are you here to take me with you?”

 

Gonk was silent. He inclined his grand head toward her. Amita inhaled with difficulty

 

“I think I’d like to go with you.”

 

_Come, then._

 

And just like that, she was without pain. She ran alongside Gonk. She had never felt so _free_ . Amita flew over Durotar, her bounding leaps matched only by the Loa that sprinted beside her. What this all meant didn’t even _matter_.

 

Orgrimmar was in an uproar.

 

A sudden attack from the Twilight’s Hammer had sent those present scrambling to protect civilians and close down the Hammer’s portals. Guards had rushed back and forth, but despite their best efforts - and the efforts of the proclaimed Heroes of Azeroth - many bodies lay motionless in the streets. Priests, shamans, paladins, and druids came together to heal those they could. Rogues marked those in critical condition with small smoke bombs, allowing the best healers to get to these critically injured civilians with haste. Warriors and death knights lifted debris to fish out anyone, alive or dead.

 

Vol’jin, during all this, was forced to sit in the Hold. He tapped his foot incessantly against the floor, glaring at Sylvanas, who glared back at him.

 

“You _cannot_ keep me _in here_ ,” he finally snarled, moving to get out of the throne. To his dismay, it wasn’t just Sylvanas who stepped forward to stop him - so did Lor’themar. And even _if_ the blood elf was considerably smaller in stature, he was still a warrior. He was broad shouldered, and incredibly strong. He shoved Vol’jin back down with ease the moment his hands came in contact with Vol’jin’s shoulders.

 

“ _No_ ,” the warrior growled, “with all due respect, Warchief, the Hammer was after _you_. If any of them are still in the city, then, whether you like it or not, you are our priority.”

 

“That goes without saying, Warchief,” Sylvanas added, setting her hand on Lor’themar’s shoulder to pull the warrior back when he didn’t immediately move away, “at least wait until the ranger general returns. He’ll confirm if the Twilight’s Hammer has retreated, and _then_ we’ll let you go tend to your people.”

 

Vol’jin snarled an insult in Zandali, and from the way Vanira’s eyes narrowed at him, he knew he’d get an earful on that later. But he _hated_ being forced to _sit here_ under _watchful eye_ to ensure his safety. He was a shadow hunter! He would be _fine_! There were people outside the Hold suffering, and no one was letting him go help them!

 

What he wouldn’t give to be rid of this position. If he were still simply the Chieftain of the Darkspear, he could have been _out there_ helping.

 

His impatience only built with every tap of his foot. The troll did what he could to calm himself. Controlled breathing, focusing on nothing, ignoring the fact that Sylvanas and Lor’themar were talking in low voices to his left and that Thrall and Baine were out in the city where he _should be right now--_

 

Really, he never knew he would be so _delighted_ to see the ranger general. Halduron’s steps were swift, though his expression quickly quashed any delight Vol’jin felt at seeing him. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

 

Actually, now that Vol’jin was paying more attention, Halduron looked like he had _run_ to the Hold and then forced himself to slow to a walk.

 

“Wat be de mattah?” Vol’jin asked, studying Halduron’s face.

 

Thankfully, Halduron was well put together despite the horror that had seeped into his expression, “warchief, I couldn’t have stopped them even if I had been ordered to, but there’s a group on their way from the docks, they have a troll with them, and she’s still breathing, but by all the gods above, below and inbetween she should not be.”

 

The blood elf inhaled deeply before continuing, “you trolls are truly remarkable for what you are able to survive.”

 

“IF YOU STAND THERE _TALKING_ SHE WON’T!”

 

Vol’jin furrowed his brows, and rose out of the seat to peer past Halduron because that was Hakto’s voice--

 

Loa he had never moved so fast. He nearly shoved Halduron over, his heart in his throat.

 

“Amita!” he exclaimed, meeting Hakto in the middle of the room. He cupped Amita’s face in his hands, wide, horrified eyes scanning over her. Her body was lifeless, arms and legs swinging as if she were a rag doll. The only indication that she was actually _alive_ was the rise and fall of her chest.

 

But Loa her legs, her _hips_.

 

It was backwards.

 

Loa he was going to be _sick_.

 

He sunk to the floor as Hakto did, even though it was clear the Tauren wanted to do nothing more than cradle Amita in his arms. Vol’jin dug his claws into the floor, leaning over her. He spoke to her, desperation creeping into his voice as the seconds passed and he received no response. He felt like he was going to choke on bile every time he breathed, and he resorted to doing nothing but calling her name.

 

“Amita? _Amita_ ,” he swallowed thickly, and ran one shaking hand down her body to her hip.

 

Or where her hip _should_ have been.

 

He immediately recoiled, fisting his hand and bringing it to his mouth. He could smell the blood on his palm.

 

“Vol… jin…?”

 

The voice was soft, and confused, and Vol’jin nearly choked at the sound as he immediately turned his attention back to Amita’s face. Hakto was too busy arguing with the people around him to notice.

 

Amita was staring at Vol’jin through glassy, unfocused eyes.

 

“Vol’jin…?”

 

He grasped her hand out of instinct, “yes?”

 

“It… hurts…” she said, her voice nothing but a weak croak, “it hurts.”

 

“I-I know, Amita, I know,” he stammered, brushing hair out of her face, “don’ worry, Hakto an’ I be here, we gonna’ make it stop, okay?”

 

Amita smiled at him. Why did she have to _smile_ at him? He had no idea how they were going to fix this!

 

“Stop _bickering!”_

 

Sylvanas’ sharp command distracted Vol’jin for a moment. The Banshee Queen had actually dropped down next to him, and was prodding at Amita’s side - the druid didn’t seem to notice. Vol’jin furrowed his brows. Sylvanas wasn’t pressing gently, oh no. The sharp tips of her gauntlets were making dips in Amita’s skin every time she prodded.

 

Without missing a beat, Sylvanas turned her attention to Hakto, “she isn’t feeling when I prod. We can take this chance to correct her body.”

 

The shaman stiffened, “her spine is broken and her pelvis is backwards. We can’t just _twist her body around._ ”

 

“And I’m _telling you_ it must be _done!_ ” Sylvanas jabbed a finger sharply into Amita’s side, right below her ribs. Vol’jin would have protested the action vehemently if not for the fact that Amita kept _smiling blissfully_ at him as if nothing were wrong at all.

 

He collected himself, “Hakto. Windrunnah be right. De--” Vol’jin tightened his grip on Amita’s hand, and she squeezed back out of reflex, “de rangah general don’ be wrong. We trolls be resilient, bu’ Amita’s body can’t be healin’ itself if we don’ correct it. You do dat, fah her. Please?”

 

The tauren’s expression hardened. Vol’jin inhaled, and nodded to Sylvanas, holding her gaze for three seconds. The shift in Sylvanas’ eyes was unexpected, but when Vol’jin turned to lean over Amita and press his forehead to hers, the Banshee Queen snapped that if Hakto didn’t want to twist Amita’s body back the right way, she and the other Forsaken present would.

 

And as much as Vol’jin didn’t _want to_ , he trusted that Sylvanas would be able to convince the shaman to correct Amita’s body. If anyone could convince the old bovine, it was Sylvanas.

 

The shadow hunter focused. Amita’s shallow breaths against his cheek were the only thing he allowed himself to acknowledge. As long as she was breathing, and as long as her heart was beating, she stood the chance to live through this.

 

But Vol’jin had to make a bargain.

 

He could feel Bwonsamdi’s fingers curling around her, even if no one else could.

 

The candles were scalding; the flames burned so brightly that Vol’jin was forced to squint for a moment. He collected his bearings. Yes, he was in Bwonsamdi’s realm, while still keeping a constant monitor on Amita’s breathing in the physical realm.

 

Bwonsamdi was crouched ahead of Vol’jin, the blood splattered on his teeth more prominent than usual, and a certain rage swirling in his eyes - which were slowly appearing to be more sunken into his face.

  
The Loa noticed Vol’jin.

 

Before the Great Spirit could even speak, Vol’jin took a brave step forward.

 

“You can’t have her.”

 

The Loa’s face split, streams of red pouring out his mouth.

 

“So _you_ be here to deny me as well,” Bwonsamdi hissed. His glare focused on someone past Vol’jin before returning to the troll, “another Loa be snatching her and _then_ returning her. And now _you,_ troll, you are going to attempt to deny me as well?”

 

Vol’jin couldn’t stop the shudder that coursed through him - but he stood fast, and bared his teeth, “ _not this one_ , I won’t let you have this one.”

 

The candles went out.

 

All Vol’jin could see was the piercing glower and the wide, reddened mouth.

 

“Do you _think_ that just because I _favor you_ , Son of Sen’jin, it means you can _have your way_ **_whenever you please?”_ **

 

Vol’jin held his ground against Bwonsamdi’s rage, putting everything he had into holding the Great Spirit’s furious glare. Truthfully, Vol’jin was terrified. He had no intention of taking advantage of the apparent favor Bwonsamdi had for him, but Amita’s body could be _fixed_.

 

“Why let you take something I can fix?” Vol’jin retorted, his voice wavering ever so much, “something that her body can fix?”

 

“I already _let you_ have your man once,” Bwonsamdi snarled, getting right in Vol’jin’s face. The Loa’s breaths were like bloody fire. Every single exhale assaulted Vol’jin with the sickening smell of copper laced with rot.

 

“Are you _implying_ that I should let you have your _woman_ too?”

 

“This is the last time I will ask this of you, Bwonsamdi,” Vol’jin nearly pleaded, focusing on the warmth that still passed his cheek. As long as she breathed, he could sway the Loa, “she still be alive. You have no reason to cling to her as you are.”

 

Bwonsamdi released a puff of red smoke - but, to Vol’jin’s relief, the candles relit.

 

“And if I give you this _woman_ , what do I get in return?”

 

Without thinking, Vol’jin replied, “anything you want, just _not her_.”

 

Bwonsamdi’s grin was filled with pure malice.

 

“Then I be wanting the soul of her son.”

 

The warchief paled, and Bwonsamdi leaned in closer again, a low, mocking rumble in his chest.

 

“If you think that just because I favor you means you can _prevent me_ from having what be rightfully _mine_ , then you are wrong. I’m gonna’ make sure you _suffer_ for this, Vol’jin Darkspear, so any time you are with that boy?” the Loa exhaled deeply, causing Vol’jin to cough violently, “you are going to feel the strongest urge to take his life, until one day, you finally, _finally_ succumb.”

 

Vol’jin was forced back to reality with the Loa’s last words echoing in his mind;

 

“ _We’ll see how much she_ **_loves_ ** _you then.”_

 

The warchief looked down at Amita’s legs. Good. They had been righted. He lifted his head from hers. Her breathing had grown stronger, and he noted that color returned to her face. Every now and then her brows would furrow, then relax.

 

Vol’jin slowly slid his hand down her chest, light stemming from his fingertips. His magic encouraged Amita’s natural healing to kick in. He could sense the sinew of her body reconnecting itself.

 

For several minutes he waited. Everything else going on in the Hold was nothing but a din around him. All he cared about was making sure that Amita’s body had repaired itself, because while trolls were resilient, there was a chance she might have to learn how to walk again. His mind wouldn’t stop pulling him back to how she had looked when Hakto brought her in. Back twisted. Legs bent upwards.

 

It had been grotesque. It had been so _wrong_. And then, he recalled what Bwonsamdi had told him. Vol’jin swallowed thickly. He was a fool. What made him think that it was a good idea to offer Bwonsamdi anything in exchange for the Loa of Death relinquishing his right to Amita’s soul?

 

A cold hand came to rest on Vol’jin’s shoulder.

 

“Warchief?”

 

Sylvanas was not one Vol’jin would have pegged for being soft. She had even leaned down somewhat, a certain understanding hidden behind the apathetic look in her red eyes.

 

“... have de wounded brought into de Hold. Especially de ones who be worse off,” he pointed to separate parts of the Hold, “broken bones dere. Severed limbs, broken backs, deep gashes.”

 

The Banshee Queen snapped orders to her Death Guards in Gutterspeak as Vol’jin gave her the directions. Hakto, despite the rage in his weathered face, listened when Vol’jin stationed him to help those with deep gashes. Vol’jin knew what the shaman was capable of.

 

“Regent Lord.”

 

Lor’themar was at Vol’jin’s shoulder in a heartbeat, “Warchief?”

 

“Find Thrall. You be telling him, an’ Baine, ta start bringing people in here. Windrunnah can be directing from dere. Have ya blood elves go into de city to help. Any priests you be finding, send dis way. Shamans an’ druids who can heal, you be sending ta de Grand Magister an’ Rangah General,” Vol’jin took a breath to steady himself, pushing the thoughts that he might one day murder Bujune to the back of his mind, “tell Rommath an’ Brightwing ta gathah up de people wit’ minah injuries.”

 

“It will be done, Warchief.”

 

Lor’themar gestured to the other blood elven leaders, and strode out of the Hold with them. Ji Firepaw tentatively moved closer.

 

“Do you… want me to take her somewhere else, Warchief?” the Pandaren asked, lowering himself to one knee. Vol’jin shook his head before tenderly gathering Amita up in his arms.

 

“No. I be taking her elsewhere myself. I’ll be back.”

 

Ji nodded to him, and rose to his feet as Vol’jin did, “Ji. Go inta de city, keep de people calm. Tell ya people ta do de same. De Hold gonna’ be full by de time dis day is ovah.”

 

Vol’jin turned away as Ji nodded in understanding before briskly walking away to do just that. The warchief walked at a brisk pace as well, cradling Amita close as he carried her up into the Hold, to his private quarters.

 

Blood covered most of her lower body. Vol’jin would have to deal with that later - for now, he wrapped Amita in a clean sheet. He laid her on the bed, and then sat on the edge, holding his head in his hands.

 

Seeing her like that… Vol’jin inhaled, and exhaled steadily to steel himself as a wave of emotions crashed over him. He wanted to know who had done that to her. Who had broken her spine and twisted her body, or if it had been a freak accident. Had she been shot out of the sky, and as she fell, struck a rock so hard that it forced her body to contort in such a way. Loa, he had to stop _thinking about it_.

 

Seconds later, he jerked his head out of his hand, and frantically turned to Amita, eyes wide--

 

 _No. Calm down. Nothing is wrong -_ **_nothing_ ** _is wrong._

 

Amita was still lying there, breathing evenly, expression peaceful. Vol’jin leaned over her, inhaling a shaky breath, and pressed his forehead to hers again. Every emotion he was feeling threatened to spill over. The warmth that caressed his face every now and then was the only thing that soothed him.

 

Ten minutes must have passed. He had to get back down to the main room, and tend to his people.

 

Vol’jin pressed his lips to the soft skin below Amita’s eye. At the very least, she would wake up in a familiar place.

 

Once again shoving the thoughts of what Bwonsamdi had told him to the back of his mind, Vol’jin stood tall, and made his way back down to see the Hold was filled to the brim with wounded, and to see Jastor up on the table barking directions to everyone else.

 

There was work to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One must sometimes learn the hard way, not to let their guard down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ oh boy here we go!

__

 

> _“It’s complicated, it’s complicated_  
>  We don’t wanna talk, it’s complicated  
>  I’m sitting in the hotel room like, “Why?”  
>  Call your phone and apologize  
>  There’s gotta be a way we can make this right  
>  We can make this right.”
> 
> \- NF, “[Wait](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dg1UXEEoJITk&t=M2YwYmI4N2QxYzY4MWY4YWZiZDZlOWE2NDRkMTllZmU5ZjYyNDMxNyxSNXNSdE9mVA%3D%3D&b=t%3A6I76-QCeXBk7XWy5xlFsPQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fairanke.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166281441210%2Fits-complicated-its-complicated-we-dont-wanna&m=1)”

* * *

 

Two years had passed.

 

At every corner, Vol’jin had managed to suppress the urge that Bwonsamdi had cursed him with. Often times an encounter with Bujune would end with the warchief gasping for breath in a secluded area. Some days, the calls were close. Once, Vol’jin had had a throwing dagger on his person, and forgotten.

 

Bujune hadn’t even been in his sights when the dagger’s cold metal pressed against his palm.

 

Rokhan had taken notice of Vol’jin’s odd behavior around Amita’s son, and while Vol’jin was grateful, he had to swallow the fear that Amita would notice one day as well. That she would notice sometimes Vol’jin hugged Bujune a little too tightly, that the older troll was oddly tense in her son’s presence. He was afraid she would notice that something was amiss.

 

And perhaps if she had been more aware that Vol’jin had lied, she would have become suspicious after one of the most recent events. Vol’jin could still hear Bwonsamdi laughing in his mind.

 

Vol’jin had been at Orgrimmar’s rear gates. He was there with Lor’themar and Jastor, having a discussion about the defenses in Azshara. It had been going well.

 

Right up until Vol’jin blacked out. He wasn’t aware of what was happening until consciousness came rushing back to him - and perhaps that was because he had realized, at some point, that something wasn’t right. When he ‘came to’, he was standing in the middle of the Valley of Strength, a few paces ahead of the Hold. People appeared to be steering clear of him.

 

And there was Amita with Bujune, just coming through the second arch of gates leading into the city.

 

Bwonsamdi’s cackle had been so loud. It shook Vol’jin’s bones. His horrified expression had caught Amita’s eye.

 

Thankfully he’d been able to tell her that he had just strode off in the middle of a conversation with Lor’themar and Jastor. It was a half lie. And Amita had believed him. That was all he needed, for her to believe that everything was _fine_ , that there was nothing strange going on with Vol’jin.

 

All the while, Bwonsamdi laughed.

 

Vol’jin saw the Loa in his dreams often, a knowing, cruel smile on his lips.

 

 _“You_ **_will_ ** _succumb.”_

 

He balled his hands into fists, steadfast in his defiance.

 

Currently the warchief sighed. He wouldn’t admit that he had been losing sleep in his efforts to avoid any unwanted encounters with Bwonsamdi. The Loa mocked him enough in the waking hours.

 

But it had been two years. Bujune was growing older, and was off on his own adventure, accompanied by the rogue Jalga.

 

The door to Vol’jin’s office was pushed open, and he raised his head. A weary smile crossed his lips, “Bujune.”

 

“Ello, Vol’jin,” the boy greeted, the door closing behind him. His black hair was growing longer. It suited him. The two regarded each other for a moment. Vol’jin noted that Bujune had put on some more muscle as well, so clearly, he had started some hand-to-hand combat training.

 

Vol’jin blinked.

 

Blunt fingernails dug into his forearms. Brilliant green eyes, wide with fright, stared into Vol’jin’s molten orbs. Every breath Bujune took was ragged, and Vol’jin’s strong hands were tight around his neck.

 

For a brief moment, Vol’jin almost believed he was strangling Amita.

 

Internally, he screamed. His hands started shaking from the efforts he put into attempting to stop himself - but he couldn’t. Vol’jin’s grip only strengthened the more he tried to loosen it. Bwonsamdi was _howling_ with laughter.

 

“Ih-ih--” Bujune’s expression had changed. There was an understanding in his young eyes that Vol’jin never thought he would see.

 

He hadn’t stopped to think that, while Amita may not have noticed, _Bujune had_.

 

“It’s okay,” the boy choked out, his hand sliding off of Vol’jin’s arm. He showed no other signs of attempting to fight back.

 

“It’s okay, Vol’jin.”

 

Tears streamed down Vol’jin’s face. All he could do was _watch_ , because his body refused to listen to him. Bujune reached up, brushing his fingers over Vol’jin’s cheek.

 

“Shh… i-it’s okay, Vol’jin, shh,” the young troll’s voice was soft as he continued struggling to breathe. And as the seconds passed, his voice grew quieter and quieter. It only made the tears worse. How could Bujune soothe his killer? It was beyond Vol’jin.

 

Bujune had such a kind heart.

 

The moment the boy’s eyes rolled back, Vol’jin’s hands snapped away from his neck. The suddenness with which Vol’jin regained control of his body startled him. He stared at Bujune, swallowing his tears.

 

Then, Vol’jin scrambled off of him. He pressed his fingers to Bujune’s pulse. His heart was still beating.

 

All Vol’jin had to do was get him _breathing_ again.

 

For five agonizing seconds, Vol’jin hesitated. It was simple: he just had to breathe for Bujune until the boy started breathing on his own again.

 

But Vol’jin’s large tusks - his pride - were in the way.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

They would grow back.

 

 _Calm down_ , he chastised himself, _cry later. Focus now._

 

Vol’jin quickly snapped both of his tusks. He flinched when he broke the right one, and he tossed the ends to the side carelessly. He didn’t have the _time_ to care. Vol’jin shifted to be beside Bujune’s head, and again, checked his pulse. It wasn’t entirely steady, but it was still there. He had a chance.

 

Carefully tilting Bujune’s head back, Vol’jin placed his palm against Bujune’s forehead and pinched his nose shut. He quickly took a deep breath to steady himself, then inhaled normally, and covered Bujune’s mouth with his. The warchief kept his eyes on Bujune’s chest.

 

It rose with the breath. Vol’jin lifted his head to take another breath, watching Bujune’s chest fall. He felt the breath escape against his face, and leaned back over Bujune again. The boy’s chest rose again with the second breath, and fell again when Vol’jin lifted his head. Good. _Good_.

 

For a solid two minutes, Vol’jin repeated this action.

 

In a moment between checking Bujune’s pulse and leaning back down to give him another breath, Vol’jin saw Bujune’s chest rise of its own volition. Vol’jin stared, eyes wide, hopeful. Bujune’s chest moved again. His breaths were weak, but there, and his pulse slowly stabilized. Vol’jin squeezed his eyes shut. He lowered his forehead to Bujune’s, fighting back sobs.

 

Bujune took in a shuddering, deep breath. Vol’jin gathered the boy up in his arms, body heaving with the effort Vol’jin put into restraining his sobs.

 

Shortly after this, Bujune shifted. He wrapped his arms around Vol’jin’s neck.

 

“I’m sorry,” Vol’jin choked out, dropping into speaking Zandali, “I-I’m so sorry.”

 

The young troll hugged Vol’jin more tightly. One of his hands stroked the back of Vol’jin’s head, and it only served to make Vol’jin cry harder. Vol’jin just couldn’t _face it_ , he couldn’t face the fact that Bujune was still trying to comfort him.

 

“It’s okay, Vol’jin,” Bujune said softly. There wasn’t even a touch of anger in his voice, “I… I been tinking dat someting wasn’t right. I was gonna’ ask if you be okay, and obviously, ya don’ be okay.”

 

Vol’jin barely managed to shake his head. Loa, he had let his guard down. He’d thought that surely after all this time Bwonsamdi would have gotten bored and relinquished Vol’jin of the urges.

 

… though when Vol’jin got a hold of himself, he became aware that he was not experiencing the urges anymore, even with Bujune held tightly in his arms. That was a good sign… right?

 

The shadow hunter pulled away from Bujune, pressing his hand firmly against Bujune’s face. Green eyes stared back at him with concern.

 

“Wat be goin’ on, Vol’jin?”

 

“It uh…” the warchief ducked his head, “ya don’ mind if I… tell ya latah, do ya? I be tinking I should talk to ya muuka first.”

 

Bujune’s gaze softened, “okay.”

 

He got to his feet, dusting off the front of his pants before giving Vol’jin a smile, “I’ll be goin’ den!”

 

Vol’jin paled, “Bujune, dere uh… c’mere.”

 

Bujune tilted his head to the side in confusion, but moved closer to Vol’jin regardless. Vol’jin got to his feet, and - with one hand encased in yellow light - touched his fingers to the boy’s neck.

 

No matter what he did, the bruises that were there refused to go away. In fact, they appeared to darken in color the more Vol’jin tried to heal them. He unwillingly drew his hand away from Bujune’s neck. Angry, deep purple marks glared back at him. Vol’jin lowered his head in defeat.

 

Bujune of course fingered his neck himself, wincing as he pressed one of the bruises a little too strongly.

 

“... I guess muuka is gonna’ find out ‘bout dis whethah we like it or not,” he muttered, eyes downcast. Vol’jin swallowed, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He was uneasy about the lack of killing urge he now had, but he was going to take it while he could.

 

“It’s… not like I don’ want ya muuka ta not find out ‘bout it, Bujune,” Vol’jin took a breath to steady himself, “I woulda’ prefahed ta tell her… myself. If dat makes sense. De only ting I can do now is… wait.”

 

Bujune’s brows narrowed back. Vol’jin could tell he didn’t agree with this plan at all, but what else could Vol’jin do? Amita surely knew that Bujune had come here, and if _she_ didn’t know, then Jalga certainly did. Just because Bujune showed up in the office alone, didn’t mean the boy was without company.

 

“I’ll um…” Bujune messed with his collar, clearly doing his best to cover up the bruises, “keep it a secret long as I can.”

 

The warchief bit back any attempt to convince the boy to do otherwise. Bujune had that look to his face. As far as he was concerned, Amita wasn’t going to find out until Vol’jin could address it himself.

 

When night rolled around, Vol’jin found his dreams silent. No Loa said anything to him, and when he awoke, he was weary. He stared at the wall across from him blankly until the sunlight glared in through the curtains.

 

He forced himself to his feet, and walked to the bathroom.

 

Loa, he looked _terrible_. He’d gone to sleep with his war paint still on, his hair was a mess, and his tusks…

 

Well, they were gone, of course.

 

The right break was the worst. No wonder he had flinched when he broke it off. Vol’jin had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t realized he was snapping it off so close to his gums. After a few moments of prodding, he deduced that there was enough of it left for him to at least sand down into more of a tooth shape. The left tusk was still protruding about a centimeter or two past his lips.

 

All Vol’jin hoped was that nobody would ask too many questions - or, perhaps he should just ignore the question when it _was_ asked. He took nearly thirty minutes to at least get himself presentable - there were meetings he had to attend to today, and the first one would be starting relatively soon, if the clock that Jastor had made him was reliable to go off of.

 

With his tusks filed, face paint redone, and hair mostly in order, Vol’jin made his way to the door of his private quarters. Right as he reached to open it, there was a knock.

 

Vol’jin froze.

 

Who could it be, that would come to see him at _this_ hour?

 

As he pulled it open, he prayed that it wasn’t Amita.

 

* * *

 

“So… what be ya reason fah wearin' a turtleneck in dis weathah?”

 

Bujune jumped at the sound of Jalga’s voice, and the rogue chuckled - Bujune laughed a little too nervously as he turned around to face his elder, “oh ahaha, well, dat be um…”

 

Jalga’s expression immediately fell. Any trace of good humor was gone, “ya been wearin’ it since yestahday - an’ on top o’ dat, ya seem pretteh jumpy,” Jalga crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his gaze steady on the younger troll, “why?”

 

Bujune lowered his gaze, scratching at his neck through his shirt, “well… it don’ be like I be wearing long sleeves.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Jalga’s change into Zandali made Bujune swallow thickly. Nothing could get past the rogue, could it? It probably had everything to do with his training. The boy racked his mind for anything coherent and believable he could say to turn Jalga’s attention away from the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless turtleneck.

 

Because even after a day had passed, the bruises on Bujune’s neck remained. He was _certain_ they had grown darker as well, as if some other force was determined to make Vol’jin suffer.

 

_Definitely the Loa._

 

Bujune knew that Jalga would… get angry. To say the least. And his mother? Bujune didn’t even want to _think_ about what her reaction might be. She _trusted_ Vol’jin.

 

In the end, Bujune sighed. He looked up at Jalga, both brows raised, eyes pleading, “Jalga, I can’t tell you. It be something my mother has to know about first. I’m only trying to give someone else the time they need to gather themselves, then I can be making it clear.”

 

The rogue relaxed. Honesty was something Jalga valued over absolute knowledge.

 

“A’ight--”

 

“What?”

 

Both males turned their heads at the sound of Amita’s voice. Suspicion creased her features. She looked Bujune up and down, her eyes narrowing, then focusing on the longer neck part of Bujune’s shirt.

 

He paled, and instinctively grabbed the collar.

 

Amita approached him swiftly, hands reaching for his.

 

“Bujune,” she said sternly when he took several steps away from her. His heart started pounding in his chest. Amita’s eyes were rounded, brows arched, mouth frowning. It was too soon! She couldn’t know, not yet!

 

There was no way Vol’jin would be ready to face her! Hell, not even _Bujune_ was ready to talk about this.

 

Unfortunately for him, his mother entangled him in tight roots. Instinctively he spat a hiss at her; she jumped, blinking at him. She _shouldn’t_ be surprised. Bujune _was_ her son.

 

Amita snatched his hands away from the collar, and though he struggled, Bujune couldn’t stop her from pulling the fabric down.

 

The roots fell away from him like water.

 

Amita’s silence was the most terrifying thing Bujune had ever been in the face of. Her eyes traced over the injuries he had received, her features now dominated by horror.

 

“... who did this to you?”

 

Bujune stuttered over an explanation - it was a mix of Common and Zandali and Orcish, and it made no sense. Amita placed her hands against his shoulders.

 

“Who did this to you?” she repeated. At least her expression had shifted to one of motherly concern. Bujune could handle _that_.

 

But now he could feel Jalga’s gaze, predominantly on the angry bruises.

 

“I-I just be getting in a lil’ altercation, in Orgrimmar, th-that’s all!” Bujune lied. It was weak. He hoped Amita would buy it.

 

Instead, her gaze narrowed again.

 

“Jalga be with you in Orgrimmar,” she replied flatly, shifting her gaze to the rogue. Naturally, Jalga blushed under her gaze, but he shook his head, eyes tight when he glanced at Bujune.

 

“I was but… there be a moment when he be going off on his own. I… I didn’t follow him.”

 

“He didn’t need to!” Bujune interjected, biting his lip when Amita turned her gaze back to him. Her hands fell away from his shoulders. Bujune could practically see her putting the pieces together in her mind.

 

“I just be getting into a small fight, muuka, it be nothing.”

 

Amita stared into the distance.

 

“.... nothing?” she repeated, looking down at Bujune after several minutes, “you be tryin’ to convince me that these bruises are _nothing?”_

 

The boy paled, bright eyes shifting between Amita and Jalga, “muuka--”

 

She reached forward, hands encased in green light. Her fingers curled around his neck, her touch soft, and the healing magic soothing.

 

But Bujune _knew_ from her slowly widening eyes and her parting lips that the bruises were not healing.

 

Her hands fell away from his neck like dead weights. She stared. He stared back.

 

“... you went to Orgrimmar with Jalga,” she said, mostly to herself.

 

Then Amita gasped.

 

She turned on her heel and Bujune lunged after her, “muuka wait!!”

 

Amita shook her head, shifted into a wind serpent, and shot off like a rocket.

 

Straight toward the capital city.

 

Bujune shrieked in panic, but before he could shift and go after her, he was grabbed by Jalga. The rogue’s expression belied that he was going to get the story behind the bruises out of the younger troll, but Bujune was far more interested in halting his mother.

 

Loa, she could fly so _fast!_ She was already nothing more than an undulating spec in the distance.

 

Using what Jalga had taught him, Bujune thrust his palm into the rogue’s shoulder. There was a distinct pop as the force behind the blow popped Jalga’s shoulder out of place.

 

Bujune rolled out of his arms - he wouldn’t have much time before Jalga recovered, and he couldn’t shift as quickly as his mother could.

 

He got his wings up, ready to shoot off after Amita when a hand caught his tail. Bujune screeched, hoping that the sound of distress would bring Amita back. He screeched and screeched and screeched, even as Jalga tried to wrangle him from the air with one good arm. Bujune beat his wings, staring at his mother’s disappearing form.

 

Amita didn’t turn back.

 

A loud growl escaped Jalga, and the next thing the small wind serpent knew, he was being hurled through the air.

 

“ _Hakto!_ ” Jalga snarled; large hands wrapped around Bujune’s muscular body. He writhed, screaming. His tail snapped sharply against Hakto’s body multiple times. The shaman was hardy, however, and he kept a firm grip on Bujune until the boy finally shifted back into his troll form.

 

Bujune was distraught, Jalga was furious, and Hakto could only resort to hugging the now sobbing child protectively to his chest.

 

* * *

 

Rokhan was the first one to see Vol’jin.

 

His chieftain’s appearance had left Rokhan standing still in shock for several minutes; Vol’jin had taken that time to brush past the elder shadow hunter. Rokhan hadn’t been given the chance to ask about Vol’jin’s tusks yet, much less _process_ the fact.

 

If there had been an altercation, the guards would have heard it. The right tusk was practically gone. No way that Vol’jin would have been silent during an attack like that.

 

Unless…

 

Rokhan shook his head, refusing to believe _that_ possibility could be true. He refused to dwell on it, because if he did, he would start analyzing Vol’jin’s behavior right down to the twitch of his fingers.

 

Instead, the shadow hunter focused on doing what he had been doing since that morning - pacing the Hold. Up and down the stairs, up and down the halls, around the main floor, around the outer perimeter; rinse and repeat. Rokhan stopped every now and then to give himself a break.

 

Vol’jin himself was drowning in meetings. All the leaders of the Horde - yes, all of them, including the Banshee Queen - had come to the Hold to have various discussions. Currently, he was listening to a back and forth between Lor’themar and Jastor.

 

It was the only way he could distract himself from the insistent, worried gazes of the others present.

 

Baine’s gaze kept flicking to and fro, looking Vol’jin up and down, eyes coming to rest often on the troll’s face. Thrall’s gaze was similar, but heavier, and certainly one that Vol’jin _didn’t_ want to look at directly. Ji seemed to have opted to keep his gaze focused on flicking between the arguing blood elf and goblin.

 

Vol’jin settled for gazing steadily at Sylvanas. She sat across from him, red eyes shifting between Jastor, Lor’themar, and the warchief.

 

Funny, he had never noticed before how expressive her eyes were. Everytime she looked back at him, Vol’jin noticed how her eyes would widen slightly, look at his tusk, then to where his other used to be, before her eyes finally creased in question when her red orbs met his molten ones again.

 

After the third time she did this, Vol’jin let his eyes shift to the left. She continued to surprise him these past few years. On top of making an effort to come to meetings held in Orgrimmar, she had opened up part of the Undercity for a meeting when it would have been difficult for the blood elves to leave their city.

 

The Amani had reared up their forces again, and Sylvanas had even preemptively sent a handful of her death guards _and_ Nathanos to aid in the defenses while other Horde troops made their way over.

 

And now, she was busily wanting to question Vol’jin about his tusks. He could swear that there was concern hidden deep in her red eyes, but he didn’t want to jinx whatever change had started taking place in her.

 

Perhaps that fateful day two years ago had brought about more good than it had harm.

 

“Okay,” Vol’jin finally said, bringing the argument to a halt, “from wat I be hearing, de harbor for de blood elves is a bit occupied by vagrants.”

 

“Correct,” Lor’themar agreed, and Vol’jin didn’t miss the blood elf’s suspicious gaze.

 

“Den, if you be wanting ta make use o’ de harbor, Trade Prince, ya best be sending some o’ ya bruisers ta de Regent Lord.”

 

Jastor groaned, and Lor’themar smiled broadly. The warrior kicked back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head, “listen to the warchief, Gallywix~”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jastor muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as much as he could, “fine, I’ll do it. If it weren’t for the fact that I actually like our warchief, I might not be so inclined!”

 

“I don’t think _any_ of us would be,” Sylvanas added dryly. Her comment earned her a chuckle from her male counterparts.

 

“Oh please, if Garrosh were still in charge, I’m sure Jastor and I would have gone into an all out Roman debate.”

 

“Hell yeah! Jumpin’ on the tables, kickin’ around papers.” the goblin laughed heartily, slapping his knee in delight, “I’d jump on that sob’s head while wailin’ about how you were intendin’ to skewer me, Lor’themar!”

 

Vol’jin shook his head as Lor’themar announced he would have gladly played along with that scheme. The warchief reached for a document to his left, skimming it once again. The meetings today were mostly informal.

 

While Vol’jin could deal with that, there was a very pressing matter than needed tending to. As the other leaders lapsed into idle conversation - which amusingly included Jastor and Lor’themar muttering some apologies in Thrall’s direction - Vol’jin absently prodded at his mouth.

 

Worgen forces were making consistent assaults on the Undercity. Initially, there had been the belief that they were acting outside of Alliance orders, but the presence of a few night elven druids and human footmen had given Sylvanas cause for suspicion.

 

Nathanos remained in the Undercity while the Banshee Queen came to Orgrimmar for the meeting. She must have a great deal of trust in her champion to leave the Undercity while worgen assaults were so frequent, if unpredictable. Her abominations and death guards had been holding their lines well, but Vol’jin was wary about the possibility of a full frontal attack to reclaim the Undercity.

 

Truthfully, the thought of it made Vol’jin’s blood boil. He hooked a claw over one tooth, glowering at the paper between his fingers. The Alliance wanted claim to the Undercity - no, to _Lordaeron_ , because it had once belonged to humans.

 

But the forsaken, they _were_ the humans, they were the ones who lived and died in that city, whether it be defending it, or attempting to flee it.

 

Vol’jin was unaware of the ferocity of his glare until Sylvanas spoke;

 

“Warchief, are you attempting to set that page on fire?”

 

Vol’jin jerked his head up to look at her, unhooking his finger from his teeth, one brow raised in question. The hint of a smile pulled at her lips.

 

“Because your gaze is fiery enough to start a blaze.”

 

A snort of chuckles rose up from the other leaders. Vol’jin couldn’t stop a smirk from crossing his lips.

 

“Windrunnah, if my gaze could be stahting fiahs, I tink I woulda’ set Stormwind ablaze alreadeh.”

 

Sylvanas released a sound similar to a laugh, however soft it was.

 

And perhaps she should have known better. Amita arrived in the city in a flurry, stalked right up to the Hold -

 

Where she stopped. The doors seemed huge. She felt small. Her heart was in her stomach, because when she had thought about it… it made sense. As much as she didn’t _want it to_. She didn’t want her thoughts to make sense, not like this.

 

Amita was nowhere near as gifted as the shadow hunters might be, but she _knew_ Vol’jin. She knew the size of his hands, and she knew the weight of his touch. The bruises on Bujune’s neck fit with what Amita had memorized of Vol’jin’s hands.

 

_It can’t be true._

 

She strode into the Hold. Amita had become a common sight in recent days, and since the troll guards present didn’t move to stop her, none of the other guards did.

 

Her feet led her up the stairs, ears twitching. She could hear voices in the meeting room down the hall. Her heart leapt into her chest before falling back into her stomach.

 

“Amita.”

 

The druid froze at the voice, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She could sense Rokhan approaching, but could not tear her eyes away from the door at the end of the hall. It seemed to stretch and bend out of perspective, and Amita felt that if she walked toward it, she might never get there.

 

“He’s in a meeting.”

 

The fact that Rokhan was using Zandali spoke volumes. Something was _wrong_. Briefly, Amita wondered if she should ask Rokhan.

 

 _No. I need answers from Vol’jin. I won’t take answers from_ **_anyone_ ** _else_.

 

Her face set in determination. She didn’t care. Her feet carried her down the hall, closer and closer to the door. Rokhan said something under his breath, and she felt someone rush past her, but she paid it no mind.

 

If he wanted to warn Vol’jin, _so be it_.

 

Inside, the meeting had lapsed into silence. Vol’jin rubbed the page between his fingers. They all wanted to bring it up now. Vol’jin could tell. Their gazes were getting too intense, and as a troll, he wasn’t fond of being under such scrutinizing eyes.

 

“Warchief,” Lor’themar finally said, and Vol’jin turned his head to look at the man, “I think that it’s… time we addressed the Elekk in the room?”

 

Vol’jin’s lips tightened over his teeth. As luck would have it, Rokhan came right through the door in his shadowy cobra form, startling the other leaders.

 

The fact that he was moving with haste, however, set Vol’jin on edge.

 

“Pardon me,” the shadow hunter said hastily, before speaking to Vol’jin in Zandali, “she’s here.”

 

Vol’jin could have sworn his heart stopped.

 

He’d been doing his best to push thoughts of yesterday to the back of his mind. He didn’t _need_ to be distracted in his thinking when there were more pressing matters to attend to. Even if what Vol’jin had done was as much of a pressing matter as anything else.

 

Before he could respond to Rokhan, the door was opened. All eyes turned to look, because of _course_ the other leaders would wonder who in their right mind would just walk right into a meeting room.

 

Amita’s expression was hardened - but when she saw Vol’jin, her eyes widened. Questions were written all over her face. Vol’jin could only stare at her.

 

“... ev’rybody out.”

 

All eyes were back on him. Baine made to protest, “but, warchief--”

 

“Ev-ry-bo-dy _out_ ,” Vol’jin repeated through clenched teeth. Amita shuffled away from the door as Sylvanas led the way - the undead elf’s ears were semi-drooped, as if in concern. Baine and Thrall were adamant to stay until Rokhan ushered them out himself.

 

The door swung shut.

 

Amita remained near the door, effectively shrouding herself in darkness. Vol’jin remained at the desk, illuminated by the light coming through the open window.

 

It left a bitter taste in Vol’jin’s mouth, and he could hear Bwonsamdi whispering mockery in his ear.

 

_“We’ll see how much she loves you now.”_

 

Vol’jin found his mouth to be dry. He was not prepared for this encounter. Amita herself looked as though she had just flown to Orgrimmar, her cheeks flushed, hair in disarray.

 

“So,” she spoke first, a faint quaver in her voice, “you want to be explainin’ to me, why my son’s neck be bruised? Or maybe you want to be startin’ with _that_.”

 

She jabbed a finger in the direction of Vol’jin’s face. Vol’jin looked down at the desk. The grains in the wood were _very_ intriguing. He took a breath. Amita was patient.

 

“I need to know,” Amita said after several minutes, and the imploring tinge to her voice made Vol’jin ball his hands into fists, “I need to know who be puttin’ those marks on my son, Vol’jin.”

 

Vol’jin could tell that she already knew, but she wanted him to tell her she was wrong. She wanted him to tell her that it was someone else, to dispel her idea that she knew his hands as well as she did.

 

He mumbled his answer at first. Amita remained patient. It was impossible for him to maintain eye contact.

 

“It was me,” Vol’jin managed, his voice small. He looked up at her, feeling every inch as guilty as he felt ashamed - ashamed that he’d made the mistake of letting his guard down. Sure, Bujune had survived, but that would not change the fact that Vol’jin had nearly strangled the child to death.

 

Amita was mortified, at first. She stared at him like she didn’t know who he was. Vol’jin dug his claws into the desk, forcing himself to hold her horrified gaze.

 

Then, the disbelief set in. She looked down, her shoulders rising and falling as her breathing escalated. Amita’s eyes shifted back and forth quickly over the floor. Her thoughts were most certainly in more turmoil than Vol’jin’s were. He opened his mouth to speak but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat constricted uncomfortably.

 

He could explain - right? He could explain, he could tell her that it had been the furthest thing from his mind, that Bujune was like a son to him first and foremost, Vol’jin would _never_ resort to inflicting pain on the boy, nor on Amita--

 

 _But I can’t. I can’t explain this and expect that to make everything right,_ Vol’jin clenched his eyes and his teeth and his brows narrowed and he bowed his head in defeat, _why would I expect that._

 

When Vol’jin raised his eyes, Amita was looking at him with a ferociousness he had not seen in her before. Her face was an open book of boiling rage, resentment in her brows, betrayal set deep in her eyes and fear in her lips.

 

Amita trusted Vol’jin. She _trusted him_.

 

She inhaled deeply through her nose, then turned to the door, directing her fury at the walls. Vol’jin rose from his seat, panic and desperation furiously grappling at his mind, slamming his heart against his ribcage because he couldn’t just _leave it at this_.

 

“Amita wait--...”

 

Loa what a tone: soft and broken, nothing more than a forlorn whisper. Amita’s back was to him. She had paused, her ear flicking. She’d heard him.

 

Vol’jin stared at the wood of the desk, though his vision was blurred. He couldn’t look up at her, couldn’t stand to see her back to him, couldn’t stand the thought that she wasn’t going to let him at least _try_ to mend the gaping wound he’d torn open in their relationship.

 

Whatever _that_ was, because the Loa knew the two danced around each other like moths drawn to a flame, afraid of getting burned but seduced by the thrill of burning alive.

 

“Don’ leave,” Vol’jin breathed, shifting his gaze to her back now, putting every ounce of pleading he could into it.

 

_I can’t lose you._

 

Amita hardly moved. Her shoulders were scrunched inwards. Even he could tell despite how much of her body those flowing locks hid.

 

“At least… tell me wat you be tinking,” he implored, hoping that at the very _least_ he would be allowed to know what was going through her mind, so he could start working on a way to _fix this_.

 

_Don’t leave me._

 

Amita said nothing.

 

She simply threw open the door, and ran. She _ran_ down the hall, and Vol’jin stared after her retreating form.

 

That spoke volumes enough where Amita’s thoughts were.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not ask for trust, but it meant everything to her to be given it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not lie, this chapter is like a wild ride of EMOTIONS.
> 
> Also yeah I didn't mention it, but all of the art is mine HAHAHA.

> _“When you said, “Baby, I just want you to lay me down_  
>  And we’ll fuck the pain away”  
> ‘Cause skin on skin,  
> I feel nothing but the burning of desire  
> And that’s just foreplay.
> 
> _We’re heading deep_  
>  Inside lives a voice, a voice, a choir  
> But I can’t hear that voice  
> When your heart beats next to mine
> 
> _I can’t quit you.”_
> 
> Cashmere Cat feat. Ariana Grande, [“Quit”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FCKhmCh68Qu0&t=MWU0ZDk2ZjViYzgxNjZjYmM1YWYxMTBjODVkNjYwYTM4OWVlYzg1NCxOYnB0U2l4QQ%3D%3D&b=t%3A6I76-QCeXBk7XWy5xlFsPQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fairanke.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166597413460%2Fwhen-you-said-baby-i-just-want-you-to-lay-me&m=1)

* * *

 

Patience was her forte.

 

But, as Sylvanas looked around the new office room that the leaders had been moved to, she took some amusement in the realization that the  _ other _ leaders were not so keen on patience.

 

Lor’themar was tapping his foot incessantly. Jastor was  _ trying _ to look calm and composed; his fingers kept twitching against his arms. So much for his attempts. Ji leaned against one of the walls, head bowed in thought, while Baine sat too rigidly near Thrall--

 

Or at least, where Thrall  _ had _ been sitting.

 

The orc shaman was pacing back and forth between the east and west walls, stopping at level with the door every few seconds before resuming his pacing.

 

“I take it that neither of you know what happened?” Lor’themar’s voice broke the silence. When all eyes turned to him, he sighed, then gestured to Thrall and Baine, “you two. What’s become of our warchief’s tusks?”

 

“Not to be rude,” Thrall said stiffly, clenching and unclenching his fists now that Lor’themar’s question had brought his pacing to a halt, “but I would not have expected you to take much interest in the fact.”

 

Lor’themar’s eyes narrowed, “I’ll have you know that despite the rocky relations between trolls and blood elves, our issues are mainly with the Amani,  _ and _ I happen to like Vol’jin. He’s far more agreeable than most other trolls I’ve had the  _ pleasure _ of meeting, despite his young age.”

 

Sylvanas found herself sitting more upright, shifting her gaze to Baine. The chieftain had his eyes focused on the floor. From the way his ears drooped, Sylvanas knew that Baine had not heard that something had happened to Vol’jin’s tusks.

 

“In regards to our warchief,” she mused, bringing all attention to herself, “I find it curious that not even his right hand, Rokhan, seems to know what’s happened - if I had to take a guess, I’d say it has to do with the druid that arrived. Amita, I believe her name was.”

 

Baine’s ears perked up, “Amita…?”

 

Sylvanas nodded, “yes. I’m certain she was the one who was brought into the Hold two years ago? When the Twilight’s Hammer assaulted Orgrimmar,” she paused, red eyes gleaming, “I don’t believe you or Thrall were present in the Hold when she was brought in. Gallywix and I were, and I do distinctly remember the warchief being… uncharacteristically concerned for her safety.”

 

Silence met her explanation.

 

“I don’t think it would be too far-fetched to assume that they know each other rather well. She seemed familiar with him, and he with her,” the Banshee Queen added. She was slowly becoming agitated under the various gazes.

 

_ Stop staring at me as if I fell down and cracked open my head, _ she thought grimly,  _ I’ve already done that once. It didn’t go as I planned. You lot should all know I had no intentions of remaining leader of the Forsaken _ .

 

Baine sighed, covering his face with his hands, “I just… troll tusks have such importance. For them to be broken off, and none of us to hear about it…”

 

“Maybe he broke them himself?”

 

Sylvanas had not expected her ears to flick upright at the sound of Ji’s voice, nor was she aware they had drooped. Sunwell  _ damn _ this troll! For all the anger she held, and the uncaring attitude she exuded when it came to the Horde as a whole, she could not deny that ever since he’d trusted her with the task of sorting out Orgrimmar on the day of that assault she had grown softer. Perhaps even warmer. She actually took an interest in the personal affairs of the other leaders, and had even offered Halduron advice. Halduron Brightwing.  _ Advice _ .

 

Ji pressed his lips tightly together, and spoke again, “I mean, it would explain why we did not hear of it. If there had been another attempt on Vol’jin, well, we would have all known. And, as the Dark Lady said, Rokhan would have been the first privy to the information. The fact that he does not know, and that Baine does not know,  _ and _ that Thrall does not know, well… that can only point in one direction. The warchief broke his tusks himself.”

 

As much as Sylvanas found herself not wanting to believe it - which was odd, because Vol’jin was a troll, and she had  _ clearly _ told herself she would not be taking orders from a troll  _ ever _ which meant she wouldn’t  _ care _ for the troll ever - but it was a logical deduction. Perhaps Vol’jin had broken his tusks himself.

 

“All this assuming will get us  _ nowhere _ ,” Thrall snapped. He looked pointedly at Sylvanas, “I’m impressed that you’re so calm about the meeting being interrupted, what with how the worgen are busy assaulting the Undercity.”

 

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed, “you might know that I gave up my claim to Gilneas months ago. It’s not worth my resources. I lost some of my best in the initial attempt, and I need to put my efforts into ensuring that Silverpine remains Horde territory. On top of that, I have faith in my champion. While I do understand the amount of distrust lobbed in his direction under the pretense that he was human, all Forsaken were human once, and I, a high elf,” she tipped her head at Lor’themar, easily holding Thrall’s glare, “not blood elf. High elf.”

 

Thrall appeared confused, “this is the first I’ve heard of you giving up your claim to Gilneas.”

 

The Banshee Queen shrugged, “oh? Then I suppose I neglected to make that clear, though I’m certain I informed Vol’jin of it in a letter.”

 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” Jastor leaned forward in his seat, eyes sparkling with interest, “you and the Warchief are exchangin’ letters?”

 

Sylvanas schooled her expression to indifference, “yes. What of it?”

 

“Now thaaat’s an interestin’ development!” the goblin chirped, taking a moment to inspect his rings, “in fact, what’s the most interestin’ ‘bout all this? You. You actually bein’ around.”

 

“Quite,” Lor’themar added, “you’ve never had the most amount of interest in us and our lives before, Sylvanas, much less the Warchief’s.”

 

She ground her teeth together, “it is far easier to send a bat than it is to come in person to inform the Warchief of mostly trivial matters. It would stand to reason that the worgen are taking my lack of action toward Gilneas and its territory as an excuse to attempt reclaiming the Undercity. It’s a matter I had intended to keep under wraps, but as it has clearly escalated with now night elven druids and human soldiers being involved, I have no choice but to bring it up in a meeting.”

 

“An excellent deflection,” Thrall said dryly. Sylvanas insulted him in Gutterspeak under her breath. She knew what they were thinking: she was the only female amongst the leaders, and Vol’jin was the young warchief, and they were  _ exchanging letters _ . How something that she did for the sake of professionalism was warped into possibly being something  _ else _ was beyond her.

 

If she  _ really _ had an interest in Vol’jin, she would make it a point to visit him more regularly, damn it!

 

Sylvanas took a deep breath. Whatever. Let them think what they wanted - in Thrall’s case, he was only being defensive of his friend. From what she understood, the two considered each other brothers.

 

It was understandable that the orc would be up in arms about the possibility of  _ Sylvanas _ showing an interest in his brother.

 

After this, the tension in the room only seemed to escalate. Sylvanas hoped that the Warchief would make his reappearance soon. If she could direct the conversation to the problems in the Undercity, then it would serve as a means to channel the tension in the room to more useful energy, and serve as a decent enough distraction  from whatever it was this druid’s appearance meant.

 

The poor thing hadn’t looked entirely happy, Sylvanas would admit.  She would also admit, however begrudgingly, that she had a desire to know the details.

 

Lor’themar raised his head after a moment, ears flicking. Sylvanas tuned in as well; heavy footsteps sounded on the floor, then the door was flung open.

 

Vol’jin heaved a sigh, and stepped into the doorway, but not fully into the room.

 

“Sorreh ‘bout dat,” he said, and Sylvanas immediately found herself on the receiving end of his stare, “‘bout dis worgen problem, wat ya be hoping fah, Windrunnah?”

 

He’d singled her gaze out for a reason. She kept her expression schooled again into indifference, if only to make it easier for Vol’jin to have someone to focus on.

 

She made to speak. Rather suddenly, she found her thoughts derailed, and her mouth saying something she did not expect, “we can postpone.”

 

Vol’jin’s entire face seemed to light up with surprise. Lor’themar and Jastor vocalised their confusion, Thrall glowered at her quizzically, leaving Baine and Ji to look at each other, curiosity dominating their features.

 

Before Sylvanas could explain her reasoning, Lor’themar interrupted, “perhaps it’s for the better, Warchief, because we are all eager to know  _ why _ your tusks are missing.”

 

Vol’jin heaved another sigh, and finally stepped fully into the room. The door swung half-closed behind him, and he crossed his arms over his chest. So, he didn’t want to talk about it, did he?

 

“Dat…” he started, clenching his teeth together, “be personal.”

 

“Too personal to tell us?” Jastor asked, raising a brow as he toyed with one of his rings, “we’re just worried ‘bout ya, Warchief. Baine mentioned that troll tusks have meanings.”

 

The tauren warrior did not appreciate the weight being shifted to his shoulders.

 

“I only pointed it out as a means of explanation for why it was surprising to  _ me _ ,” he quickly said, eyes looking everywhere but at Vol’jin.

 

“If it’s personal, then it’s personal,” Sylvanas said loudly, bringing the attention back to herself. Sunwell she  _ hated _ having all their gazes on her, but the subtle appreciation she could glean from Vol’jin’s expression gave her reason to continue, “best we not pester you about it, Warchief. That, and I would rather you be at your best to take into consideration the details. If you give me a few of your siame-quashi, then I would consider the problem taken care of for now. Perhaps we can have a more formal meeting next week?”

 

“Dat would be… most appreciated,” he replied, his voice dropping in volume at the end. Vol’jin visibly relaxed.

 

He raised his head to look at all the other leaders present, then set his gaze on Lor’themar, “Silvahmoon be closest. Perhaps you could be stationin’ Brightwing an’ a few archers in de Undahcity as well?”

 

Though his eye was narrowed in disapproval with the way the conversation had gone - pesky, nosy elf  _ clearly _ wanted an answer about Vol’jin’s tusks - Lor’themar nodded his head, “very well. I’ll let Halduron know to send a squad of archers your way, Dark Lady. I’m sure he’ll also be able to find the time to come himself, at least for a day or two at a time.”

 

Sylvanas inclined her head toward Lor’themar, “your support is welcome, Regent Lord.”

 

“I can send a few shamans,” Baine offered, then glanced at Thrall, “and I’m sure if Thrall asked, Eitrigg would be willing to come by with them.”

 

Sylvanas shook her head, ignoring Thrall’s heavy glare once again, “that’s quite alright. I’m satisfied with what’s already been offered. In the meantime, Warchief,” she turned her eyes back to Vol’jin, “I’ll continue to update you about the situation. It looks as though you could use some rest.”

 

Vol’jin hung his head. His shoulders lowered as if he’d been released of some kind of weight.

 

Still, it left Sylvanas impressed when Vol’jin straightened and squared his shoulders before stepping into the hall. It was obvious he was speaking to Rokhan, with how he dropped into Zandali.

 

Fifteen minutes later found the Banshee Queen at the door of the Hold. Lor’themar had already made his way to the Zeppelin docks, informing her that he would like to get back to Silvermoon and have archers ready and waiting before she got back to the Undercity.

 

Her thoughts wandered. Perhaps all she had really needed after coming into undeath was for someone to trust her - and even if Vol’jin didn’t truly trust her, he had still given her the benefit of the doubt.

 

_ What a difference it makes, _ she thought grimly,  _ to be trusted, even with some trivial task. Hah. _

 

Really, he’d been the last one she had expected, and she was grateful.

 

Thrall strode out of the Hold. The rush of air from his movements made her cape flutter. He paid her no mind, at all.

 

Sylvanas sneered at his back, then turned swiftly and went in the opposite direction. Her feet led her up to Vol’jin’s main office. Seconds before knocking on the door, her ears flicked. A smile crossed her lips.

 

“You  _ are _ trained well, aren’t you?” she mused, looking over her shoulder. Two shadow hunters followed her closely. They bowed their heads respectively to her, and, chuckling, Sylvanas turned her attention back to the door.

 

“Yes?” came the muffled call after she had knocked. She pushed the door open.

 

“Warchief.”

 

Vol’jin sat up straighter in his seat, papers scattered all over his desk. She recognized her own most recent letter, sitting on top of everything else. Her red eyes pinched inward.

 

“Windrunnah, you still be here?”

 

“I opted to give Lor’themar a head start,” she informed him, coming to stand in front of the desk, “he wanted to have the archers in Undercity awaiting my arrival, and I know the damn zeppelin schedule like the back of my hand.”

 

An amused smile spread over his lips, but he ducked his head to hide it. Vol’jin motioned toward the door, “I see my siame-quashi be finding ya.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder, “you trained them well.”

 

“Ya flattah me,” Vol’jin muttered, picking at part of the desk with a claw, “de male is Druaz’to. Female is Fahn’ta. Mos’ o’ de praise be goin’ ta Rokhan, realleh. I been… tied up here.”

 

Sylvanas frowned, “it would seem that way. I’ll send you something from Undercity with the next bat.”

 

He raised a brow at her, “oh? Gonna’ send some blight my way?”

 

The Banshee Queen couldn’t resist humoring him with a cackle, “of course warchief! My plans include turning you into an undead troll to do my bidding! I’m sure the Loa won’t strike me down for that.”

 

Vol’jin practically doubled over to stop himself from laughing. Sylvanas was grateful he wasn't looking at her, because the last thing she wanted him to see was the soft smile that had definitely just crossed her lips.

 

“No, warchief, not blight. I heard you have a fancy palette, and I have something in reserve you might like. That, and you mentioned that Stormstout fellow was coming to visit you soon,” she shrugged when Vol’jin recovered enough to look up at her, “given the Pandarens natural inclination to brews, I thought you might enjoy it together.”

 

The troll ducked his head in embarrassment.

 

“Shouldn’ you be keepin’ dat fah yaself…” Vol’jin muttered, and Sylvanas took a chance. She walked around the desk to stand at the warchief’s side, and placed one hand on his shoulder.

 

“Perhaps, but I  _ am _ undead. I’ve lost the majority of my taste buds,” she let her hand slide off his shoulder when Vol’jin turned in his seat, “it’s something you could make better use of than I could.”

 

He hardly nodded his head in response, his molten eyes staring at the parchment she’d sent him. Sylvanas reached over and pushed it off the top of the pile with her finger. A snort escaped Vol’jin.

 

So she pushed a bunch of the other papers over top of it. They fluttered around, and Vol’jin snatched at several of them.

 

“Windrunnah!” he exclaimed, exasperation in his voice. Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed when she noticed that he was digging up the letter she’d sent him - whether intentionally or unintentionally. She grabbed both of his hands, her grip startling Vol’ijin enough to make him release what he had already gotten a hold of.

 

Sylvanas forced him to sit back against the chair. His gaze was harsh, and filled with warning. She was pushing the limits of their new ‘relationship’. She kept a tight grip on his hands, and for now, he didn’t resist.

 

“Stop. I told you it can  _ wait _ .”

 

“You be expectin’ me ta not tink about it, at all?” Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Sylvanas tensed when he simply flexed the muscles in his hands, “who d’ya be takin’ me fah, Sylvanas?”

 

The Banshee Queen thought about it for a split second;

 

“I take you for a leader who is far too young to be thinking about all these things at once, on top of having who knows what kind of personal turmoil going on at the moment. My people can wait.”

 

Vol’jin stiffened, “your people?”

 

Sylvanas’ eyes tightened, but she nodded all the same. Her grip on his hands loosened. Perhaps she had been wrong in thinking that her relationship with the troll had been improving--

 

“De Forsaken be a part o’ de Horde. Dey be  _ my people _ too, Windrunnah.”

 

She jerked away from him in disbelief. Vol’jin’s eyes were pinched inward.

 

“You didn’ tink I saw dem as dat, did you?”

 

“In-- in  _ my defense _ ,” she rasped, balling her hands into fists at her side, “I’ve spent most of my time as a part of this Horde as the one everyone watches. That everyone questions. You are the first warchief to ever acknowledge that  _ my _ people are  _ your _ people.”

 

The troll’s gaze softened. He turned back to his desk, and this time, Sylvanas let him rearrange all his papers, once again setting her letter on the top.

 

“I be appreciatin’ ya concern, an’ as much as I be grateful ya willin’ ta postpone… I be needing de distraction. So, I’mma keep it here as someting I can… tink about.”

 

Sylvanas sighed, “very well. But take it from me, Vol’jin, as someone who has been around for millennials, and been in a position of leadership for about that same amount of time - give yourself a break.”

 

“... I’ll keep dat in mind, Sylvanas.”

 

She tipped her head curtly at him, “I’ll take my leave then. I believe I’ve given the Regent Lord a sufficient amount of time to get a squad of archers organized.”

 

Vol’jin nodded his head hesitantly. Sylvanas turned on her heel and made her way to the door. The siame-quashi that Vol’jin had assigned her were still posted at the door. She nodded to them, and they followed her.

 

“Windrunnah!”

 

She stopped short, turning half-way toward Vol’jin, “yes, Warchief?”

 

He was gripping the door, reminding her of how a child clings to a door when telling their parent goodnight.

 

“... thank you.”

 

Sylvanas could feel her face light up at the words; and not only that, but at the sincerity with which he said them.

 

“Of course, Warchief.”

 

* * *

 

A week.

 

Two weeks.

 

A month.

 

_ A month and two weeks. _

 

Amita had managed to avoid any and all reason to go to Orgrimmar. Any time she asked, Inetiel was more than willing. The blood elf went to get her anything she wanted: food, clothes, Brew of the Month brews, fabrics, jewellery, materials for making jewellery - the list went on. Even Hakto had gone once or twice when Inetiel was tied up at the bar. Sometimes, Rath would go.

 

She sat on the Ratchet dock alone. A few days ago, Bujune had tried to sneak to Orgrimmar with Hakto - and he would have gotten away too, if not for the fact that Jalga was keeping insistent tabs on the young troll.

 

Amita wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Bujune wanting to go to Orgrimmar either. When she had returned from finding out about the fact that  _ Vol’jin _ had been the one to leave those terrible bruises on her son’s neck, she’d… taken it out on Jalga.

 

It had started with a fight. She’d charged him in hydra form, so at least he had known that she wasn’t messing around, as it were.

 

Part of her blamed him. He had been in Orgrimmar with Bujune.

 

Of course Jalga had refused to defend himself, for the most part; he’d refused to draw any of his weapons on her. The fight was short and ended with Amita straddling his chest, face buried in her hands,  _ weeping _ . Somehow, she managed to heal some of Jalga’s wounds through her tears.

 

And she’d taken her frustrations out on Jalga that night too. She wanted  _ different _ hands, different whispers, a different face. Anything to replace the red hair that haunted her thoughts.

 

_ But he won’t leave me alone _ .

 

Amita leaned her face into her hands. She’d cried so much in the past month. She had no more tears left to shed, and it was for the better. The druid didn’t know how much more angry rubbing her eyes could tolerate.

 

She hated how she missed him. She hated how she wanted to go to Orgrimmar, hated how she wanted to see him, hated how she  _ wasn’t angry _ .

 

“I be so  _ stupid _ ,” she muttered to herself, “so stupid and in love--”

 

A sharp gasp left her. She jumped up from the dock, walking hastily toward Rath’s bar. Maybe if she left the dock, she could run away from the words. Pretend she’d never said them.

 

The druid sat at Rath’s bar, lifeless. The bustle around her slowly ground to a halt. People came and went, some attempted to have a conversation with her but she hardly responded.

 

Old green hands appeared in her vision.

 

“Amita?” Rath’s soft voice permeated her thoughts, “how do you feel?”

 

Amita shook her head, and he laughed quietly, “just tell me. Doesn't matter if you think it sounds silly. How do you feel?”

 

“... I feel helpless,” she admitted after a minute of silence, “Jalga be keepin’ Bujune from goin’ ta Orgrimmar, even though I be Bujune’s mothah. I don’ be angry at Vol’jin, even though I should be. He tried ta  _ kill my son _ , an’ I jus’ feel nothin’ ill toward him about it--...”

 

She could feel her face growing hot. Rath noticed.

 

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re not angry?”

 

Amita shook her head furiously. She raked her fingers through her hair. Somehow, talking about it  _ now _ , she was beginning to feel the anger. Maybe it was because she was talking to Rath, and no one else was around.

 

“No, no, I don’ be angry - I be  _ furious, _ ” she said, more loudly than she intended, but there was hardly anyone in the bar as it was, “dey weren’t goin’ ta tell me! Bujune tried ta hide it from me! Who be knowin’ when de Warchief be intendin’ ta tell me - prob’ly no’ anytime soon!”

 

Subconsciously she grabbed one of Rath’s hands; he let her, “de bruises still haven’ faded! Bujune be lyin’ ta ev’ryone who be askin’ him ‘bout dem, says dey be some kinda’ tattoo, an’ he keeps tryna’ go ta  _ Orgrimmar _ obviously because he be wantin’ ta see you know who!”

 

She clenched her free hand into a tight fist, snarling, “I be so angry  _ I don’ even know how ta be angry! _ ”

 

Rath’s gaze was easy to be under. It was concerned and fatherly, and so far, he had been the only person to ask her how she felt. After giving her ten minutes to reign in her emotions, Rath asked her another question, “have you asked Bujune how he feels?”

 

This caught her off guard, “no…”

 

“And, have you asked Jalga how he feels?”

 

“Ah… no…” she raised her free hand to rub her neck, because Rath now refused to release her other one. A half-laugh left the old orc warrior.

 

“Well, I for one know that Jalga is angry! I had to race him to Orgrimmar the day after you told us why Bujune had bruises on his neck. I was afraid he was going to try and assassinate Vol’jin.”

 

Amita’s heart dropped into her stomach. The despair that washed over her practically spread to Rath. The orc brushed his thumb over her knuckles, “fret not, Amita. I was able to stop him right before he entered the city, and Rokhan must have sensed his murderous intent from  _ miles _ away. He was already at the gate, ready for a fight.”

 

“Dat don’ make me feel any bettah, Rath…” Amita muttered; he smiled at her.

 

“I was hoping you would realize you weren’t alone.”

 

Her ears perked up at that - then drooped again, “wat am I supposed ta do, Rath?”

 

Rath was silent.

 

“Running the risk of sounding like I’m defending what he did, but I think you should give Vol’jin the chance to explain himself.”

 

Amita’s ears flicked back. She glowered at the bar top, her hand clenching around Rath’s, “let ‘im explain himself, huh…”

 

“You need the whole story, Amita,” Rath continued gently, “I’m not condoning what he did, nor dismissing it. You mentioned to us that his tusks were broken, and while I might be inclined to believe that Bujune broke them himself, with the way the boy keeps trying to go to Orgrimmar - and this is me assuming, like you, that he wants to see Vol’jin - if the Warchief had truly intended to harm Bujune, then why would your son want to see him?”

 

Amita kept her silence, and Rath continued, “people usually don’t want to be around those who harm them. If Bujune is trying to go see Vol’jin, then I think there’s more to this situation than any of us know. And you, you certainly deserve to have your answers.”

 

“He be askin’ me ta wait…” she found herself saying, “befah I ran out, ‘cuz I didn’ know wat ta do. He be askin’ me ta wait, den he asked if he could be knowin’ wat I was tinkin’.”

 

“You know him, Amita, better than anyone,” Rath whispered, turning her hand over in his so he could place his other hand on top, “I think you should give him a chance.”

 

* * *

 

Storm clouds gathered over the Barrens. The winds were cold, bringing the promise of rain.

 

Vol’jin leaned his head back against the wood of Rath’s bar. He was sitting at the back, where he usually sat.

 

Truthfully, he’d wanted to come to Ratchet nearly over a month ago. He had this consuming desire to fix what he had broken. He  _ had _ to. Vol’jin already couldn’t stand the distance that Amita had been putting between herself and him, with him being the Warchief.

 

Vanira had stopped him. She cared about Amita, perhaps more than Vol’jin did himself - because _ his _ concern had been to clear his own name.

 

She told him that he best give Amita the space she needed, or else Vanira would smite him with lightning herself. It was the first time she’d been considerably cold to Vol’jin, even after sitting through his explanation of what had happened.

 

_ But I’m not the one that anyone needs to be concerned for _ , he thought solemnly, brushing his hands through his hair, and subsequently sweeping the hood off his head.

 

Vol’jin wasn’t in Ratchet to talk to Amita, no - after getting over himself, he decided that this time, he would wait for Amita to come back to Orgrimmar and seek him out herself, when she was  _ ready _ .

 

It wouldn’t stop him from trying to see her, though. One glimpse, that’s all he needed, and he would go back to Orgrimmar - and one glimpse of Bujune, too. He wanted to make sure the boy was doing well. He was certain that Amita was keeping Bujune close to her side, and he didn’t blame her. Who would want their child near someone who had almost killed them, regardless of the explanation that might be behind it? On top of that, Amita was a troll. She was no different from Vol’jin. If it had been  _ his _ child, he would behave the exact same way.

 

“Vol’jin…!”

 

Rath’s voice made the Warchief jump. Right, he’d forgotten that his hood had been swept off his head - and with a grimace he recalled that it wouldn’t have made a difference. The back of Rath’s bar had become some sort of odd haven for the Warchief.

 

“... I don’ be here,” he said weakly, “if she be aroun’, den I jus’ wanna’ see her. If not, I’ll be headin’ back ta Orgrimmar, befah dis storm starts.”

 

“She was just here, but she left,” Rath’s voice was much gentler than Vol’jin anticipated.

 

“Hah. Didn’ expect dat tone, Rath.”

 

The orc sat down on the stairs, his shoulders rising and falling with a silent sigh.

 

“Did you know that Bujune keeps trying to sneak back to Orgrimmar?”

 

Vol’jin stiffened at this news, but shook his head.

 

“Amita makes the assumption that he’s trying to get there to see you, but I know he is. I asked him, once, when I realized he had stown away in my wolf’s pack. He’d turned into a cobra and nestled in the pouch - I hadn’t noticed until reaching the border between the Barrens and Durotar because he’d moved everything I had in the pouch he occupied to the other side, and his weight  _ nearly _ balanced the two sides out. If he hadn’t let out a hiss, I’m sure I would have rode into Orgrimmar none the wiser.”

 

Hearing this made Vol’jin’s chest swell and ache at the same time - and Rath continued, “he’s tried to fly back multiple times, but Jalga keeps catching him before he can. Hakto once nearly took him there, but again, Jalga intercepted. He even tried to stealth his way over, but he can’t keep up a stealth as long as his mother, and he hasn’t had much training as a druid,” a fond smile crossed Rath’s lips, “I have a point to telling you all this, I promise.”

 

Vol’jin couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping him. He could have sworn he saw Hakto out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head to seek out the shaman, he found the tauren to be gone.

 

_ No matter _ , Vol’jin mused, then leaned his head back against the wood, “so? Wat be ya point, Rath?”

 

“How can I be angry when Bujune is not?”

 

Vol’jin’s eyes widened briefly.

 

“I may be blind in this eye, but I can still see pretty damn well. Bujune has been trying nearly  _ every day _ to get to Orgrimmar to see you. When he talks about you, Vol’jin, there’s a sadness about him. He  _ wants _ to see you. Multiple times he’s muttered that he hopes you’re doing alright. He’s confided in me that he hates how Jalga keeps intercepting him and how Amita is indifferent to the fact that he’s suffering too.”

 

Loa, Vol’jin had to dig his claws into his thigh. He was not going to shed any tears over this. Even if it shook him to the core, to know that Bujune was so desperate to get to him.

 

* * *

 

Bujune was exasperated.

 

He liked Jalga, he  _ really did _ \- but not when the rogue had taken it upon himself to act like an overprotective father. Was it so hard to understand that Bujune had no ill-will toward Vol’jin? That he missed the older troll even? Vol’jin was suffering too! Maybe  _ he  _ needed someone to talk to, and Bujune was alive, wasn’t he?

 

_ Alive because of Vol’jin. _

 

“Don’ worreh, Jalga, I be stayin’  _ right here _ .”

 

Dark eyes flashed dangerously, and Bujune crossed his arms over his chest, hunching in on himself.

 

“Ya realleh gonna’ have dat tone wit’ me?”

 

Bujune muttered incoherently under his breath. He knew better than to say something out of anger. Jalga narrowed his eyes and leaned down to Bujune’s height, “well?”

 

“I can watch him, Jalga.”

 

Hakto’s gruff voice was welcome - so welcome, in fact, that Bujune shuffled in the direction of the shaman’s voice. After all, Hakto had willingly offered to take Bujune to Orgrimmar - not that Jalga needed to know that.

 

The last thing Bujune wanted was for the rogue to become hostile toward Hakto as well.

 

Jalga frowned, and Hakto crossed his arms, “I said I can watch him. You’ll be gone for an hour or so, right? I’ll take him to the dock, do some fishing.”

 

With a sigh, the rogue relented, “yea. I’ll be back inna’ houah. Be seein’ ya.”

 

“Earthmother watch over you,” Hakto muttered as Jalga sprinted off. Bujune was curious. Hakto kept his gaze focused in the direction Jalga had gone--

 

“Go to the bar, at the back. There’s someone there you’ve been wanting to see.”

 

Bujune turned on his heel so swiftly he stumbled. He sprinted to Rath’s bar, heart in his ears.

 

And when Bujune came to a halt at the corner of the bar, staring wide eyed at Vol’jin, he could feel a stinging in his eyes. The older troll looked as though he’d been having a rough time.

 

All that left the boy was a choked sound, and Vol’jin’s head snapped in his direction in an instant. His molten eyes widened.

 

_ Vol’jin!! _

 

Bujune threw himself into Vol’jin’s arms, causing the older troll to grunt with the impact.

 

_ Vol’jin, Vol’jin, Vol’jin! _

 

Bujune was so happy he cried. He wound his arms tightly around Vol’jin’s neck and pressed his face under Vol’jin’s chin. The Warchief’s embrace was warm. He easily enveloped Bujune in his arms.

 

It seemed neither of them could say anything - but Bujune had so many questions! And he was sure Vol’jin had questions too.

 

* * *

 

She wasn’t sure how long the two of them had been like that. All Amita could do was stare at how her son hugged Vol’jin. Tightly, like he never wanted to let go.

 

Anger flared up inside her. Amita could feel it blossom between her eyes - and the  _ only reason _ she didn’t turn into a hydra and snatch Bujune away was due to Vol’jin’s expression, sorrow mingled with relief. Obviously, he had missed Bujune, and with how Bujune clung to him, her boy had missed him too.

 

Rath noticed her first. He shifted too quickly, catching both Bujune and Vol’jin’s attention.

 

It was  _ so  _ unfair.

 

Amita’s anger vanished the moment Bujune - fear written all over his face as he looked at  _ her _ \- scrambled out of Vol’jin’s arms and positioned himself between her and Vol’jin.

 

Her lips parted as she thought.

 

_ “Did you ask Bujune how he feels?” _

 

Amita lowered her gaze, tangling her fingers in her skirt.

 

_ “I think you should give him a chance.” _

 

Amita took an uneasy breath. She couldn’t expunge the anger she felt - not yet anyway. Not until she knew  _ why _ , because Rath was right, as much as she didn’t want him to be.

 

She needed answers, and the only one who had those answers was Vol’jin. She had to give him the chance to explain himself. She had to remember that he had asked her to wait for a reason.

 

Her feet led her forward. Bujune watched her approach in wide-eyed fear, keeping himself positioned between shadow hunter and druid. Amita cupped Bujune’s cheek in her hand. She gazed steadily at him, attempting a smile. It was weak.

 

“Stay wit’ Rath tonight, okay?” she said softly. And she could see Bujune’s fear change to astonishment. There was the smallest hint of hope in his eyes.

 

Amita chanced a glance at Vol’jin.

 

The warchief looked as astonished as Bujune, but his expression was filled more-so with disbelief. Amita kept her expression as neutral as she could.

 

This time, smiling at Bujune was easier. She directed it at him before letting her hand slip away from his face. As she turned, she heard the rustle of fabric as Vol’jin got to his feet.

 

A drop of rain shattered on the druid’s nose.

 

“I bettah head back ta Orgrimmar,” Vol’jin said, his voice low. Amita shifted into a raptor, startling Vol’jin’s mount even if the beast had seen her in the form multiple times.

 

Or maybe it was startled because she had grabbed it by the reins and jerked it toward Vol’jin. She dropped the reins once the emerald raptor was close enough, her large inner toes tapping against the ground.

 

Vol’jin stared at her, eyes wide. It became clear to her that it had not been his intention to impose his presence on her - and perhaps he hadn’t wanted to impose his presence on Bujune either.

 

No matter.

 

She would have her answers soon enough.

 

Amita chuffed at Vol’jin, then turned and ran. She could feel the vibrations of the other raptor’s footfalls as she went. It felt like only seconds had passed once she reached her home, but by the time she reached her door and shifted back into a troll, the rain had started coming down harder.

 

The druid strode forward. She didn’t bother waiting for Vol’jin to get off his mount; she dropped the roots from her door and shoved it open. Once inside she found herself stomping her way to the bathing room. She snatched out a towel.

 

When she came back into the main portion, Vol’jin was hesitantly standing in the doorway.

 

“Stay ovah  _ dere _ ,” she hissed, finding it easier to show her anger now that her son wasn’t there to defend the warchief. Vol’jin’s lips pulled tightly over his teeth, and he stepped inside. He stayed on the far side of the room, where Amita kept a few bookshelves and a desk, with a few chairs here and there. Inscription papers were scattered everywhere from Bujune’s studies.

 

Amita chucked the towel at Vol’jin. He caught it deftly, of course, clenching it tightly in his hand.

 

“You be in Ratchet,” Amita said, switching to Zandali because it was easier to be angry, “why?”

 

“I--...” he hesitated. Narrowed his eyes. Glared at the floor.

 

“I wanted a glimpse of you.”

 

Amita’s brow furrowed. His expression was distressed.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I… be wanting to make sure you be alright.”

 

Amita crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to let herself soften. It was difficult. It was  _ so _ difficult. Her heart betrayed her with every thump. It wanted him and he was  _ right there _ . Amita dug her claws into her skin, hoping that the bite of pain would distract her mind from the desires that her heart was trying to put there.

 

“Then why my son be with you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Vol’jin said, the towel still gripped tightly in one hand and his red hair limp against his skull, “when I be coming to Ratchet, I didn’t have any intention to find either of you outside of just seeing you. That’s all I be wanting. I don’t be knowing who told Bujune I was there. I be wanting to ensure you had the space you needed, so that you could come  _ to _ me when  _ you _ be ready.”

 

The druid let her fingers relax. She couldn’t overlook the fact that Bujune had just… been so  _ happy _ . She could tell from the way he’d been hugging Vol’jin. It brought her a measure of comfort to know that he had intended to give her space until  _ she _ was ready, but an angry voice nagged that he was telling a pretty lie.

 

Quickly she averted her gaze, because her heart was working itself into a staccato. It wasn’t  _ fair _ that him just  _ standing there _ being so close yet so far was making her like this. She was supposed to be  _ angry _ with him. He had nearly killed her  _ son _ .

 

She made to ask why he had tried to strangle Bujune when he seemed to care about the two of them so much, but another question that was plaguing her mind tumbled out of her mouth, “what be happening to your tusks?”

 

Vol’jin’s hand slackened. The towel dropped to the floor, he swallowed thickly, then spoke;

 

“It was the only way I could resuscitate him.”

 

Amita’s eyes snapped to him, “what?”

 

“They were too big, Amita. I had to break them.”

 

His expression was still dominated by distress, and Amita stomped one of her feet against the ground, her arms falling to her sides and hands balling into fists, “if you be saving him, then why you be trying to kill him!?”

 

“I let my guard down,” he replied, clenching his teeth together in the effort to not match her volume. Amita’s hair billowed around her.

 

“You be letting your guard down?! You be talking like you didn’t have  _ any _ control!”

 

Vol’jin bit back a growl, “I  _ didn’t _ .”

 

“And those bruises are  _ still there _ ,” Amita hissed, her voice dropping to a whisper at the end. She hugged herself, “what did you  _ do _ to him? What was on your  _ hands _ ?”

 

“I made a deal,” Vol’jin said, his voice quiet, “do you remember when the Twilight’s Hammer attacked Orgrimmar?”

 

Amita’s ears flicked. She barely remembered the day, outside of…

 

Waking up in Vol’jin’s private chambers, with him at the bedside struggling to stay awake.

 

“No… I don’t be remembering it in its entirety,” she muttered, playing with a strand of hair, “why does it matter?”

 

“Hakto brought you to me.”

 

Amita looked up at him, eyes pinched in puzzlement. Vol’jin’s tone had taken on the distress in his face. Was it a painful memory for him?

 

“Your spine was broken, legs twisted around,” he bit the inside of his cheek, then continued, “and I was a fool. I made a deal with Bwonsamdi, I told him he could have anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t take your soul.”

 

Amita stared, wide-eyed.

 

This was her first time hearing about it. She reached back into her mind - because Loa, hadn’t this happened two years ago? - searching for any other memories. Amita vaguely remembered being in an excruciating amount of pain. She remembered being free, briefly, before coming back to herself. After that, it was a haze.

 

“He asked for Bujune’s soul.”

 

Her arms dropped lifelessly to her sides. Part of her couldn’t believe it. Bwonsamdi, Amita knew, wasn’t one to so easily let go of a soul if it was something he wanted, yet Bujune was still alive.

 

Vol’jin couldn’t take the silence, “he cursed me with the urge to kill him. I be fighting it for two years, then I let my guard down. All I could… do was watch.”

 

Bitterness spread over Vol’jin’s features, and he met Amita’s gaze with a sincerity she didn’t expect, “Amita, I  _ love _ that boy. What makes you think that any part of me would have  _ wanted _ to kill him?”

 

Sharp nails dug into Amita’s palms as she clenched her hands into fists. Vol’jin blinked, turning his gaze to the ground, before looking back up at her.

 

“You  _ know _ me.”

 

The emotion in his voice was impossible for her to ignore.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

_ “I be wondering, Son of Sen’jin.” _

 

Vol’jin ignored the Loa, though Bwonsamdi was insistent in his hovering. Amita stood still across from Vol’jin, absorbing what he’d told her, and Vol’jin was grateful that for now, Bwonsamdi was keeping himself invisible.

 

The Loa opted not to continue his thoughts. Vol’jin assumed it was because Amita was drawing closer, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the man before her. As she raised her hand, Vol’jin was certain she was going to slap him.

 

Instead, she rested her hand against his cheek. He wanted to grasp her hand and keep it there. Loa, he had missed her touch  _ so much _ .

 

Her lips moved, “yes, I  _ do _ know you.”

 

Vol’jin never thought that hearing her say that would tear the horrible weight away from his shoulders, however briefly, because Bwonsamdi settled there soon enough.

 

_ “And you know what I be wondering…” _

 

The Warchief did his best to inconspicuously clench his teeth. Amita was still gazing heavily at him, after all, her eyes studying every line of his face.

 

_ “Is what would be happening, if I be giving you  _ **_other_ ** _ urges?” _

 

Vol’jin could not stop his eyes from widening. His mind went into a panic.

 

_ Anything but that, anything but that, anything but that. _

 

_ “But Vol’jin~” _ the great spirit mocked, laughter on his voice as he spoke only so Vol’jin could hear him,  _ “she be right here! And you, of all people, you be knowing how she likes it. Rough. Passionate. You been missing her touch. Why not? You know she’ll let you.” _

 

If anything, Vol’jin was so lost in his desperation to plead for anything  _ but _ that, he had forgotten that Amita was staring at him.

 

He abruptly found himself entangled in strong vines, with Amita backing several steps away. Her eyes were harsh, but not looking at him.

 

No, she was looking past Vol’jin’s shoulders, her eyes flicking to the left, then the right, then back to the left.

 

“Bwonsamdi,” she spoke, a fierce spark in her voice, “you be forgetting that I’m favored by Gonk. I  _ can _ sense you. You don’t be as hidden as you think.”

 

The Loa lingered for a moment longer, then departed. Part of Vol’jin was amused. To think that Bwonsamdi might not want to draw the wrath of another Loa, now  _ that _ was interesting.

 

More interesting - and of infinite more importance - was the fact that Amita chose to draw closer once again. The entangling roots fell away from him, and Amita placed her hand against his cheek once more.

 

For several minutes, they gazed at each other. First, Vol’jin leaned his cheek into her palm, closing his eyes for a moment to simply relish in the contact. His eyes fluttered open after a moment to find that Amita’s expression had shifted from cold scrutinizing to something warmer. Something more alluring.

 

Vol’jin shakily raised his hand to cover hers. He was terrified she would jerk her hand away. She didn’t. Her green orbs batted at him. Amita’s breathing seemed to shift the longer they gazed at each other, and Vol’jin found his own breaths growing heavy and uneven.

 

Amita was looking at his lips now. Her eyes traced over to the protruding tusk to his left, then to the lack of one on his right. She looked back up at him, her eyes fluttering again. Vol’jin couldn’t help returning the action.

 

She drew closer. The heat radiating off her body curled around him like a gentle embrace. One of his ears flicked as the sound of rain filled the comfortable silence. His hand clenched around hers; in response, her fingers briefly squeezed his cheek.

 

Loa Vol’jin wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her flush against his chest. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her  _ hard _ . A month and a half was far too long to be robbed of Amita’s affections. It was far too long for  _ her _ to be robbed of his - and because Vol’jin had been a fool.

 

Only a fool would make a deal with  _ Bwonsamdi _ .

 

Now, his eyes were roaming. Her lips were parted, a light sheen to them after her tongue darted out to wet them. They looked so welcoming. Vol’jin’s gaze lingered - then her jewellery caught in whatever light was coming through the window. It drew him in, eyes going to her strong neck, then following down the golden chains that of  _ course _ slipped out of view under her top. Between her breasts.

 

Vol’jin’s eyes snapped back up to Amita’s face. She arched her brows for a second. It was a gesture he knew well; did he like what he saw?

 

He couldn’t stop the small smile that pulled at his lips.

 

A churring sound caused both trolls to look to the door, breaking their gaze.

 

Right.

 

The rain.

 

Vol’jin’s raptor.

 

Reluctantly Vol’jin moved his hand off of Amita’s. Hers slipped off his cheek, sliding down his neck to rest for a brief moment on his collarbone, before Amita caught herself and pulled her hand back. Not too swiftly, but not too slowly; Vol’jin couldn’t make a judgement on what the action might mean.

 

“I bettah go,” he muttered, ears flicking again to the sound of the rain. It was like an assault on Amita’s well-constructed home.

 

Amita was quiet, drawing both hands to her chest. Vol’jin gave her a nod, which she returned, and regardless of how difficult it was to walk away, he forced his feet to move. It wasn’t too much of a struggle to open the door, but he was alarmed by the way the wind blew the rain.

 

The water came down in  _ waves _ . The wind moved the droplets like it would when there was a storm out at sea. No  _ wonder _ his raptor had gone and gotten his attention. He took a moment to soothe his beast, running his claws along the raptor’s eye ridges.

 

Inside, Amita battled with herself.

 

Part of her was still determined to be angry; determined to keep her distance.

 

The other part was ready to forgive him - eager, almost, because when he had covered her hand with his, white-hot lightning had raced up her arm to her shoulder. Amita hadn’t realized how much she had missed his touch.

 

Her anger berated her for being a stupid girl. A stupid girl who was in love whether she wanted to admit it or not.

 

And she knew how the rain was in the Barrens.

 

Before Amita could stop herself, she was opening her door, “Vol’jin!”

 

He had his cloak back on, but had nearly turned around fully to look at her. Amita leaned out of her door, looking at him, then looking at the rain, the trees, the ground…

 

“You… should stay.”

 

Vol’jin stared at her, but not in disbelief like she had expected. No, there was a hopeful spark in his eyes, and he blinked before looking away.

 

“I c’n make it ta Crossroads,” he informed her. Amita bit her lip. Clearly, he’d told her the truth about wanting to give her the space she needed. She held her silence, and Vol’jin went back to preparing to leave.

 

“... de Barrens be dangerous when it rains,” she found herself saying. Amita raised her gaze to find Vol’jin looking at her again, and a gust of wind blew a good amount of rain under the canopy she’d set up over her doorway. Vol’jin’s raptor protested both the wetness, and the chill that the wind brought with it, but Vol’jin only shuddered.

 

“Dere be mo’ chance dat it’ll flash flood. So… you should stay.”

 

She hoped that her gaze was imploring enough. When Vol’jin didn’t move, she pushed her door open a little more to step outside.

 

It hadn’t even begun to swing shut when Amita’s back slammed it closed, because Vol’jin had surged forward.

 

Oh, how she missed this. Her hands pressed firmly against his chest; him towering over her, boxing her in, the warmth from his body and his clothes hanging around her like a shield from the biting winds of the storm. And the dampness on the cloak he wore made the fabric cling to his arms, and water slowly dripped between her breasts as part of the cloth rested against her chest.

 

Loa he was so close. She could feel his breath on her lips. She could drown in his eyes. His hair brushed against her forehead, again limp from the wetness of the rain.

 

Vol’jin closed his eyes tightly before pushing back. Amita kept her hands on his chest for a moment more.

 

“Bettah bring ya raptah inside,” Amita murmured, letting her hands drop away. Vol’jin nodded his head, muttering something in agreement, before stepping away from her. She waited for the wind to send another buffet of rain in their direction before yanking open her door. Vol’jin urged the emerald beast inside, and it immediately made a beeline for the pillows and cushions Amita had thrown on the floor the day before.

 

She had to stifle a laugh once she stepped back inside, pulling her door tightly closed. The poor thing groaned and grumbled when Vol’jin tried to get it to move.

 

“Jus’ be leavin’ ‘im, Vol’jin,” Amita said, a giggle in her voice. Vol’jin turned on the balls of his feet to pout at her, and she gestured to the towel he’d dropped on the floor earlier, “use dat. I’ll be gettin’ a biggah one fo’ ya beast.”

 

Amita quickly went to get the larger towel - then she grabbed a second, just in case. It was just as well that the beast had chosen to hunker down on the pillows. There wasn’t really another place she could keep him where he would be comfortable.

 

Vol’jin, of course, knew her home like the back of his hand. He’d been here often enough. His cloak was draped over the stone sink, looking as though it had been rung out. It was the only article of clothing that Vol’jin had removed, and currently he was towelling off his hair.

 

She went about drying off Vol’jin’s raptor. The beast chuffed at her, and she let him sniff at her hair as she worked.

 

Wordlessly she held up the other towel.

 

“Realized you prolly need dis,” she muttered after feeling Vol'jin's grip on the item, “I mean, ‘specially aftah ya got buffehted by de rain.”

 

Vol’jin chuckled, “well, ya not wrong.”

 

Silence fell between them as Vol’jin wandered in the direction of her bathing room, and Amita stayed by his raptor. The time passed by slowly, and the rain didn’t relent.

 

In fact, Amita was sure it had started coming down even  _ harder _ than it had been.

 

_ I almost can’t stand having him so close, _ Amita came to realize, her eyes drifting to the back room. They were eager. She wanted to know what he was doing,  _ stop that, Amita. _

 

Sighing, she rose to her feet. There was some fish in her ice box, she knew, but her appetite was lacking. Perhaps a piece of fruit would do? She had some lying around. Amita hoped that Vol’jin wasn’t interested in eating, but well, if he  _ was… _ she supposed she could make him something.

 

Skimming over the various fruits she had left was simple enough. The peach would go rotten before the apple, so she picked the soft fruit out of her bowl. The first bite made her squeak and quickly raise a hand to her chin to prevent the juice from dripping down her neck. With the second bite, she felt a heavy gaze.

 

She turned her head quickly, brows raised and face flushed as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

 

Vol’jin’s face flushed as well, and Amita could only tell because  _ apparently _ he’d decided to wash off his war paint.

 

“Uh!” Amita swallowed the fruit, coughing lightly because she’d completely forgotten that chewing one’s food was always the best course of action, “did you, um, wan’ sometin’?”

 

Vol’jin walked around her in a wide arc, eyes darting to look everywhere but at her, “I don’ realleh be having an appetite.”

 

“Ya sure ya don’ wan’ sometin’?” Amita pressed, digging around in her bowl for something softer than an apple, like perhaps a plum, or another ripe peach--

 

Vol’jin’s hand appeared in her vision, picking out the apple, and  _ Loa _ his chest was pressing against her shoulder, and since when did his proximity affect her like this?

 

Amita lit up like a Winter’s Veil light, and as she shuffled to the right Vol’jin took a few steps back.

 

“I’ll be having dis, if dat’s a’ight.”

 

The druid nodded her head, staring at the ground. When she’d looked at him to acknowledge his comment, he’d given her a smile. The part of her that was still angry with him was the  _ only _ reason she hadn’t tried to pounce on him yet.

 

_ And if we kiss, we’re  _ **_going_ ** _ to fuck, no doubt about that, _ she released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when Vol’jin turned away from her,  _ and I know that I’m not in a place where… I can let that happen. _

 

Amita was glad that the rigid stand against physical contact was going both ways. She appreciated that Vol’jin was so determined to stay  _ out _ of her space, rather than in it.

 

To pass the time, Vol’jin sat himself in the corner of the room. He would take an hour or so to meditate, because it would both distract him from Amita’s presence, and prevent this time they were sharing together from developing in a direction Amita would rather avoid.

 

He preferred taking that stress off of her shoulders - and she wouldn’t bother him. As much as Amita liked to tease and pester him, whenever Vol’jin was meditating, she kept her distance.

 

The warchief found himself in front of Bwonsamdi, who of  _ course _ looked pleased with himself.

 

“A tough situation you be in, Son of Sen’jin~”

 

Vol’jin glowered, choosing to say nothing. Bwonsamdi cackled, “so, boy? What reason you be having for being here, eh?”

 

“You never gave me an answer,” Vol’jin said through his teeth, “to my question.”

 

“Which question?”

 

Naturally the Loa was going to play dumb. Vol’jin had asked it the last time he was here. Bwonsamdi had merely grinned.

 

“You don’t be having Bujune’s soul. You be letting me save his life. Why? I be thinking that you, Great Spirit, would be the least willing of all the Loa to be giving up what he be thinking is rightfully his.”

 

Bwonsamdi grinned, bloody and horrible, “ahh, yes,  _ that _ question. You did be asking that.”

 

There was an odd gleam in Bwonsamdi’s flaming eyes. Something akin to respect, but not  _ quite _ that, “you impress me, Vol’jin. Two years. Two whole years you be resisting the curse I put on you. It be reminding me why I be favoring you in the first place. Because you respect, but you defy. Fearful, yet fearless, one of the few who be having the guts to defy  _ me _ , of all the Loa.”

 

Vol’jin’s brows furrowed. Bwonsamdi waved a hand, lighting every other candle in his dark realm, “I be angry at first. That be why you never heard from me, because you be right, I be the last Loa to give up on what be rightfully his, and on top of that, you be avoiding me too. But,” and the Loa chuckled, shaking his great head, “my goal be to make you suffer.”

 

The Loa leaned down until his eyes were at Vol’jin’s level. If Bwonsamdi so desired, he could open his mouth and devour Vol’jin’s soul, “and you, you been suffering, haven’t you?”

 

A snarl died in Vol’jin’s throat. He swallowed it, and crossed his arms over his chest, “you be relinquishing your claim to Bujune’s soul, then?”

 

Bwonsamdi waved a hand dismissively, suddenly sitting upright in his throne of skulls again, “yes. I’ll be having it soon enough, like I’ll be having yours, and your druid’s. Like I will be having all souls. And my statement still remains, Son of Sen’jin. We’ll be seeing how much she really loves you, when all this be coming to a point.”

 

Vol’jin closed his eyes, willing himself away from the Loa’s realm. He could not escape the Loa’s last words.

 

_ “And it be coming to that  _ **_real_ ** _ soon.” _

 

Rain still assaulted Amita’s roof when Vol’jin finally came back to himself. He sighed, wondering how late it was, while simultaneously accepting the fact that he would not be able to get back to Orgrimmar tonight.

 

He got to his feet, taking a moment to stretch before he turned around, eyes sweeping over the room. His raptor was fast asleep on the mound of pillows.

 

And Amita…

 

She was gazing at him from her bed. The woman had taken a liking to the things, plush and comfortable as they were. Hers was large and circular, peppered with pillows and blankets and other warm things.

 

As a troll, Amita would naturally go about making herself a little nest. Vol’jin would not admit that if he were allowed to, he would stay in it all day. It was the most brilliant piece of furniture that Amita had ever adopted from all her travels.

 

That, and Vol’jin was certain the Zandalari had a part to play in her liking of beds.

 

Hesitantly, Vol’jin approached. He wasn’t sure if she would let him lie next to her. As he steadily drew closer, Amita showed no signs of discomfort, nor did she verbally inform him to sleep elsewhere.

 

By the time he stood next to the bed, she was letting her eyes flutter between open and closed. He trailed his claws along her arm; she shuddered, but didn’t flinch away. He let some of his weight rest on the bed, one hand and knee dipping into the mattress. Amita’s eyes snapped open, and Vol’jin froze.

 

“You stayin’, or goin’ somewhere else?” she asked, a yawn creeping up her throat. Vol’jin’s heart did a pitter-patter to the rains above. He crawled over her; she allowed it.

 

“Stayin’,” he muttered in response, lying down next to her. Amita hummed.

 

For a while, the two lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling. Every now and then Vol’jin would feel her fingers brush against his. At some point, he turned onto his side to look at her. Her eyes were closed. She was peaceful.

 

Vol’jin could kiss her.

 

He could, he could,  _ he could-- _

 

He couldn’t.

 

The warchief wet his lips. He shuffled a little closer to Amita, draping his arm across her stomach. Her eyes shifted under her eyelids, and a sigh of air passed through Vol’jin’s nose. Waiting for her to slap him away.

 

Amita turned onto her side, her back to him. Then she scooted back. Her shoulder pressed against his chest, head nestled snug under his chin.

 

Vol’jin wrapped his arm around what he could of her waist; she allowed it. She allowed him to curl around her, legs tangled, his other arm curved above her head. He buried his face in her mass of hair.

 

Amita’s warmth, and the consistent drum of the rain lulled Vol’jin into the most restful sleep he’d had in two years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some decisions are best made without thinking about them too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ r u ready 4 sex??? Here is the sex.
> 
> And also is the last chapter / longest chapter, hope you enjoy it, I will run away and hide now LMAO

> _Cause I wanna touch you, baby_  
>  And I wanna feel you, too  
> I wanna see the sunrise and your sins  
> Just, me and you  
> Light it up, on the run  
> Let’s make love, tonight  
> Make it up, fall in love, try
> 
> _(Baby I’m right here.)_
> 
> Zayn Malik feat. Sia, “[Dusk Till Dawn](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FXBxPZuFTNQA&t=ODk5ODUwMjI0Y2JlOTRkOWEzN2NhM2ZlNTA5MWZjZGZhMGFkZjYyOCxJOENjV3dDOA%3D%3D&b=t%3A6I76-QCeXBk7XWy5xlFsPQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fairanke.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F170277922855%2Fcause-i-wanna-touch-you-baby-and-i-wanna-feel&m=1)”

* * *

Bujune was a consistent presence in Orgrimmar. Vol’jin hadn’t anticipated that it would be the case, but apparently the boy was determined to visit Vol’jin as frequently as possible, now that things seemed to be…  _ better _ between the Warchief and Bujune’s mother.

 

Jalga was - unfortunately - an iron wall. Vol’jin was well aware that there was no way he was going to get back on the rogue’s good side, though he had a hunch he had never been on Jalga’s good side to begin with.

 

At the very least, Jalga tolerated Vol’jin’s attempts at being friendly. The younger troll was polite, and softer of expression on some days than he was on others. Vol’jin let it be. As long as Jalga let Bujune come and go as the young monk pleased, Vol’jin would make no further attempts at anything above being an acquaintance that Jalga had to deal with.

 

Amita, on the other hand, kept herself at a distance.

 

It was difficult. When Vol’jin had left after their conversation five months ago, she had been reserved. He’d understood, at least. When he visited now, it was only when he knew she was going to be in Ratchet. He avoided going to her personal room when in Rath’s bar, settling with talking to her outside at the back instead. It helped that Amita was more relaxed, because while the two could have their privacy, being in the open space gave the druid options.

 

Vol’jin couldn’t keep her there if she didn’t want to stay.

 

Sighing, Vol’jin dragged a hand down his face. His tusks were still considerably short, and more often than not Vol’jin had to spend a good thirty minutes sanding down his left tusk, because his right tusk was growing back more slowly. He supposed it was fair. A fitting, lingering reminder of the fact that he had strangled Bujune.

 

“No’ting be changing de fact dat it be  _ frustrating _ ,” he muttered to himself, staring at the ceiling. He mulled over his thoughts, checking things off as he did. Borders were good. Aggressions toward and from the Alliance had reached a stalemate of sorts, with the odd dispute happening once in a blue moon. It was safe to say that relations were getting better - slowly, but surely.

 

As for the Undercity… Vol’jin groaned and dragged both hands down his face. It had been dealt with… for now. That had been his priority after getting things sorted out with Amita. Sylvanas had been keeping him updated even after their second meeting but…

 

“Warchief.”

 

Vol’jin raised his head - he hadn’t expected company, certainly not at this hour, and certainly not  _ hers. _ Regardless, he tipped his head in greeting, “Windrunnah.”

 

“Walk with me.”

 

The troll straightened, staring at her quizzically. Sylvanas kept her expression neutral, though she walked into the room, closing the door behind her. One gloved hand gestured to the large windows behind Vol’jin, and the Warchief glanced over his shoulder.

 

“But first, we’ll fly.”

 

“You don’ be having any intention o’ letting me say no,” Vol’jin mused. She raised a slim brow at him, and - with a sigh- Vol’jin got out of his seat.

 

“Alright.”

 

Seemingly pleased, Sylvanas easily vaulted over the windowsill onto the roof. Two bats were hunkered down there, and Vol’jin couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at his lips. So she had planned this. Typical Sylvanas.

 

It was clear the larger of the two bats was meant for him, and while Sylvanas was on the back of her bat seconds after her feet touched the roof, Vol’jin took a moment to form some sort of bond with the large mammal left to him. It snuffed at his hands, nudged his shoulder, and then hissed softly. Vol’jin ran his fingers along the middle of its head - an action it seemed to like.

 

“Before the moon gets any higher, Warchief.”

 

Vol’jin huffed, making some slight adjustments to the saddle, “an’ here I be tinking you be de patient one.”

 

“Usually,” Sylvanas said with a snort, “but I don’t have much time before my Champion notices my absence.”

 

This gave Vol’jin reason to pause. He fixed Sylvanas with a heavy gaze, scrutinizing her from the top of her hood to the spike of her boots. She was not dressed in her usual attire. Apart from her gloves and some of the decals on her boots, she wore no other sort of armor. The hood was black, and long enough to cover her entire form from sight. He’d ignored her appearance when she had walked into the room, but with her mentioning that  _ Nathanos Blightcaller _ of all people didn’t  _ know _ she was in Orgrimmar, he was forced to pay attention.

 

He mounted the bat, pulling on the reins. It let out a soft screech, then launched itself off the roof. Sylvanas pulled alongside with her bat after a moment, and the two escaped Orgrimmar without incident. There were so many questions nagging at the forefront of Vol’jin’s thoughts: why was she here, why hadn’t she told Nathanos she was leaving,  _ how _ did she get to Orgrimmar so quickly, what had driven her to show up in Grommash Hold unannounced?

 

Sylvanas directed her mount toward the Barrens, and Vol’jin did the same - though now he sat atop the silent beast rigidly. To his relief, Sylvanas’ bat dove down and landed on the bank of the river that ran between Durotar and the Barrens. Vol’jin followed, of course, slipping off the bat before it landed completely. The beast immediately twisted up to the nearest, largest tree, latching onto a branch with its strong feet. Its companion joined it soon enough, and the two bats hung there staring eerily into the distance.

 

The Banshee Queen had already started walking along the riverbank, and Vol’jin muttered under his breath in Zandali as he took a few strides to catch up.

 

“Wat you be doing in Orgrimmar so late?” he asked, preferring to start this conversation. The Banshee Queen chuckled.

 

“Might want to ask a different question before I answer that one,” she replied, slowing her walk now that he was beside her. Vol’jin furrowed his brows, his suspicion only mounting - but he obliged.

 

“Den why didn’ you be telling ya Champion dat you be leaving de Undahcity?”

 

“He is nosier than I like at times. For this, I preferred the option of coming alone over the option of having him lurk several paces behind,” she looked up at Vol’jin, her red eyes bright in the dark, “I often forget how peaceful the deserts of Durotar are at night.”

 

Vol’jin folded his arms over his chest, looking off to the side. The moonlight glittered on the surface of the river. The water was still, save for the odd crocolisk that swam through it. He turned his attention back to Sylvanas when she spoke again, “though, I am led to believe that the cold of the desert air gets to  _ you _ more so than it gets to me. It’s… good to see you prepared for that.”

 

The Warchief chuckled, kicking one of his feet, “while it be true dat we trolls don’ be particulahly inclined ta wear  _ more _ clo’ting in general, we know bettah. Dat, and I don’ be having any Drakkari in my blood.”

 

“Darkspear are more susceptible to the cold.”

 

“Ya be learning dat in Northrend, Windrunnah,” Vol’jin huffed, pulling at the fur cloak he wore over his armor, “mos’ jungle trolls be. De Drakkari wouldn’ fair well in de jungle, on da opposite side o’ tings.”

 

She hummed, nodding her head, and given her lapse into silence, Vol’jin asked another question, “so? How you be getting here so fast?”

 

“Mages,” Sylvanas replied curtly, stopping by a palm tree. She leaned against the trunk, “I escaped to a secluded part of the sewers with a few of my magus while Nathanos wasn’t looking, had them create a portal, and so here I am. That’s also how I slipped into your quarters unnoticed.”

 

Vol’jin had to stifle a laugh, “you be knowing de Hold dat well eh?”

 

“I’ve been there often enough by now to know  _ exactly _ where I’d like to go. I’d prefer to be quick about it, and taking a zeppelin would have been  _ far _ too long. For all I know, Nathanos is in Orgrimmar right now, stealthily trying to discover where I’ve gone. Or perhaps he’s gone to Silvermoon first.”

 

The troll crouched, sighing as he stared ahead in the same direction as Sylvanas.

 

“Den why you be here.”

 

She was looking at him now.

 

“You’ve kept your secrets long enough, Vol’jin.”

 

He stiffened, clenching one hand into a fist, immediately aware of where this conversation was going.

 

“Is dat so, Sylvanas?”

 

“Tell me,” her voice was oddly soft, and Vol’jin wasn’t sure if he liked it much, “what exactly happened to your tusks. It’s been nearly half a year, and you’ve yet to say anything about it. Furthermore, I was certain that tusks grew back far more quickly than yours are. It seems unnatural.”

 

“You be saying dat like ya prefer me wit’ large tusks,” he teased, giving her a sly look. She arched one of those slim brows, fighting against a smile - then she set him with a fierce gaze. Vol’jin looked away.

 

“I be breaking dem myself,” and it was easier to say than he expected.

 

“So Firepaw’s assumption was right…” Sylvanas muttered, mostly to herself, but Vol’jin heard her. He wasn’t entirely surprised either: Ji was more perceptive than most gave him credit for. Vol’jin expected nothing less.

 

“Why?” Sylvanas voiced after several minutes of silence.

 

“I be learning de hard way dat you  _ nevah _ make a bargain wit’ a Loa,” he laughed humorlessly, turning a dull gaze to the Banshee Queen, “an’ you would tink dat I, of all people, would be knowing dat already. Do you be satisfied?”

 

Sylvanas shook her head, and Vol’jin sighed.

 

“This has to do with that druid - Amita.”

 

He flinched, and a growl died in his throat.

 

“It was clear that she was -  _ is _ important to you. Important enough that her being brought into the Hold those two years ago stopped you from leaving to tend to your people in the city. Important enough that you  _ personally _ whisked her away to your private quarters, and if my assumption is correct, she’s important enough to you that you would dare to make a bargain with a Loa.”

 

This time, Vol’jin growled openly. The sound made Sylvanas stiffen, but she wasn’t one to back down when it became clear she was on the right path.

 

“Important enough that you  _ ordered _ us to leave in the middle of a meeting the moment she set foot in that office.”

 

Vol’jin was digging his claws into the trunk of the tree before he could get a hold of himself. He towered over Sylvanas, eyes blazing as he glowered at her.

 

But what made him furious was the fact that he couldn’t tell her she was wrong. What made him furious was how this was reminding him that his relationship with Amita was at a standstill, that she was consistently keeping him at a distance and showed no signs of letting him close to her again.

 

“Wat you be wanting me to say, Sylvanas?” he spat, heat blossoming between his eyes as she stared up at him with an unreadable expression, “dat you be right? Dat my efforts be in vain because she’s  _ nevah  _ gonna’ trust me again?”

 

“And why would that be the case, Vol’jin?” Sylvanas said through her teeth. The Warchief felt a small measure of pride in knowing that despite her neutral expression, he was making her uneasy.

 

“Because I be telling Bwonsamdi he could be having anyting he wanted, so long as he didn’ take  _ her. _ ”

 

“And why would that have anything to do with her losing her trust in you?”

 

Vol’jin snapped.

 

“Because I nearly murdered _her_ _son!_ ”

 

That wasn’t the answer he wanted to give, and as he lurched back and clapped his hand over his mouth, Vol’jin shook with anger at how Sylvanas’ brows had shot up.

 

That was the answer she’d been looking for.

 

“Warchief,” and there was that soft tone again. Vol’jin had half a mind to turn his back on her and stride away.

 

“If that’s the case, then what does any of this have to do with you breaking your tusks?”

 

Sighing in defeat, Vol’jin let his hand drop away from his mouth like a dead weight, “dey be too big, I couldn’ be resuscitating him if I didn’ break dem. You be wanting de whole story,  _ fine _ . My mistake be saying dat Bwonsamdi could be having anyting he wanted, and he be wanting her son’s soul. He be cursing me wit’ de urge ta kill ‘im, an’ I be managin’ ta resist dat urge fah two years,” he exhaled through his nose, overcome by a sudden tiredness, “I be letting my guard down, five months ago. I be strangling him, bu’ no’ to de point o’ death. I was able ta save him.”

 

Vol’jin intended to leave the conversation at that, but as he made to turn away cold fingers wrapped around his. He snapped his head back toward Sylvanas, eyes widening when he realized she had taken off her gauntlet before grasping at his hand.

 

“Then you will be able to reconcile, Vol’jin. If she is  _ that _ important to you, then you can’t convince me you’d be willing to let her go that easily - but it’s going to take  _ time _ . And since you’ve been truthful with me, let me be truthful with you,” she released his hand. Vol’jin turned to face her again, expression tentative.

 

“I present myself as uncaring, but only because so many times, others have turned their backs on me. In recent years, you have given me reason to soften - given me reason to  _ care _ . Lately, you have not been yourself, and I knew that any attempts to bring up this topic in the presence of others would get me no where. When I asked in my letters you simply avoided answering, replying as if the questions were not there. I said it once, and I’ll say it again: I would rather you be at your best than melancholy,” a wry smile crossed her lips, “that’s  _ my _ job.”

 

Vol’jin couldn’t help a laugh, “you be coming here out o’ concern fah me, Windrunnah?”

 

“Yes, Warchief. When I realized I had a chance to confront you about your tusks, I took it,” she sighed, turning her head to look off into the distance, “I swore to myself that I would never care again - never  _ love _ again after Vareesa opted not to join our side of this war, and saved Garrosh’s life after we had agreed to poison him together.”

 

She shook her head when Vol’jin made to inquire about that piece of information, “she told Prince Anduin what we had done, and he intervened. I wanted her at my side as a Dark Ranger. A selfish want, really, but she was my sister. I loved her.”

 

“Loved?”

 

“Like I said, Warchief,” her expression had grown dull, “I swore to myself that I would never love again - but you have gentle hands. Perhaps you will be the one to convince me that I can have a heart again.”

 

Sylvanas pulled her gauntlet back on, flexing her fingers as she did, “then again, I have a feeling that Amita knows your hands better than I ever will.”

 

Vol’jin was grateful that Sylvanas couldn’t see his face flush. He crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to cover up the fact that she had flustered him, “we best be heading back.”

 

“Of course, Warchief.”

 

What he wouldn’t give to wipe that knowing smirk off her face.

 

Nathanos was waiting for them when they arrived back at Grommash Hold. He was rigid, eyes pulsating in irritation, and lacking any and all patience he normally had. Sylvanas bid Vol’jin goodnight regardless of how antsy her Champion was being, and Vol’jin returned the good wishes.

 

In the days following, Vol’jin found himself pulling the various Horde leaders aside and giving them the same, brief explanation he had given Sylvanas. Thrall and Baine were the first he pulled aside, of course. Rokhan was next, because Vanira had been the first one to know. Gallywix, Ji, and Lor’themar were the last. Meetings had grown calmer, now that the other leaders knew. Vol’jin was surprised to realize how much it had been bothering them to be in the dark that long.

 

Seven months had passed now.

 

Azeroth was calm, for the most part. The campaign in Draenor was progressing slower than Vol’jin would have liked, but it was progressing nonetheless. The various heroes of Azeroth were busily gathering their resources and allies to take against Garrosh’s new Iron Horde.

 

Part of Vol’jin wondered what the point was of following Garrosh to Draenor. Why not just close the portal, cutting him off from ever coming back to Azeroth? He laughed to himself, shaking his head.

 

_ Wishful thinking. Damn bronze dragons, sticking their noses where they don’t belong _ , he sighed, breathing deeply. The ocean flooded his senses with salt and seaweed.

 

It had been awhile since he had gotten the chance to escape to Ratchet. Starting back at square one with Amita wasn’t as bad as one may have been led to believe.

 

He’d forgotten what it was like to simply lie on the sand next to her, laughing about something he’d said.

 

The tide was skittish - every now and then he could feel it just  _ barely _ touching his heel, then it retreated back into the open water. Amita had brought a hand up to her face he’d made her laugh so hard, and the giggles that spilled past her lips took their sweet time ebbing away.

 

“Do it realleh be dat funneh?’ he inquired, smile pulling at his lips once more when Amita attempted to slap at his arm, her laughter starting all over again.

 

“No!! Bu’ dat wat be makin’ it funneh, I be guessin’,” she said through her giggles. Vol’jin snorted, turning his gaze back to the sky. It was painted with more hues than he could name, deep violet bleeding into cyan, which gave way to a vibrant green that faded into a brilliant orange. That was all Vol’jin could see, but he was certain that if he sat up and looked at the horizon, it would show him the blood red that tended to surround the sun. Clouds were sparse.

 

Amita had lapsed into silence, now that her laughter had died down. Vol’jin’s skin still felt warm from when the sun had been shining down on the two of them. A gentle wind blew some of Amita’s long hair against his arm and face.

 

Vol’jin closed his eyes. How he missed the feel of her hair draping against his skin--

 

“‘Ey, Vol’jin.”

 

He was snapped out of his sudden salacious thoughts at the sound of Amita’s voice. He stared wide-eyed at the sky for a moment, half glad that her voice had interrupted him. Who knows where his mind would have continued to wander if she hadn’t spoken.

 

“Yes?”

 

“How be tings at de Hold?”

 

“Eh, dey be,” he muttered, dragging his claws through the sand, “meeting’s, and dis campaign in Draenor. Be driving me up a wall, not ta mention always lookin’ ovah my shouldah.”

 

“Why?” she sounded concerned.

 

“I can nevah be sure dat de Twilight’s Hammah isn’ gonna’ try someting again,” his hand clenched over his stomach, “dey realleh did a numbah on Orgrimmar at dat time. Killed a lot of people.”

 

Amita was silent. Vol’jin pressed his lips tightly together.

 

“Dey nearly--”

 

His eyes went wide.

 

He’d turned his head to look at her, only to find that she was  _ right there _ . She was so close that his short tusk was touching her lips.

 

Amita stared at him with wide eyes as well. Her breath fanned over his face.

 

With a squeak, she rolled away -  _ he scrambled to sit up _ \- shifted into a hydra -  _ there was a sharp pain in his chest that he couldn’t explain _ \-  and took off down the beach.

 

“Amita!” Vol’jin called after her. She was already out of earshot, her large form disappearing behind a building in Ratchet.

 

The shadow hunter snarled when he heard the haunting laughter of Bwonsamdi, a distant echo across the water. He sat on the beach, glaring at the dying sun, because just when Vol’jin thought things were finally getting better he had to do  _ something _ to ruin it.

 

To his surprise, he felt the ground shake again - and someone complaining loudly?

 

“Muuka!”

 

Confused, Vol’jin looked toward the sound. An unexpected laugh escaped him, because the sight of a wide-eyed hydra Amita carrying a deeply frowning, red-faced Bujune was a humorous one to behold. She had to have her neck straight and her head tilted back just to keep her ever-growing son off the ground.

 

Vol’jin would have gotten up, but she dropped Bujune right on top of him. Vol’jin grunted, and Bujune scrambled off him, still red in the face.

 

“Muuka!” he wailed, “did ya hafta’ jus’ grab me like dat?!”

 

Amita groaned, flopped onto the ground, and rolled onto her back, kicking her legs in the air. Vol’jin lay back on the sand, watching her.

 

“Uuuugghh…”

 

“Wat dat be fah eh?” Vol’jin inquired, turning his head to Bujune as the boy’s mother was still flailing back and forth on the sand.

 

“She didn’ even fit through de door…”

 

“She went in Rath’s bar like dat?”

 

“Muuka  _ tried _ ,” Bujune shuffled closer, “bu’ she couldn’, an’ she be makin’ a  _ huge _ fuss, so I be goin’ ta de door ta see wat she needed…”

 

He flopped onto Vol’jin’s stomach, groaning again, “an’ den she jus’ reached ovah me wit her head an’ grabbed me by de collah an’ carried me off!”

 

Vol’jin chuckled, “I guess dat  _ would _ be pretteh embarrassin’.”

 

“Of course it be!” Bujune’s pout deepened, and he turned his head to look at Vol’jin. The older troll had to push himself up on his arms to look at the boy.

 

“... do tings be bettah?”

 

Vol’jin kept his expression as neutral as he could. Amita had ceased her rolling and grumbling, and was lying on the ground, watching. Her large tail flicked back and forth.

 

“Mebbe,” Vol’jin said on a breath. Bujune looked away; Vol’jin sat up. For a while, the three sat in silence. Bujune eventually got up and waded into the water. Hakto sauntered along, and when the sun was nearly gone, Rath and Jalga appeared.

 

The rogue stuck close to Bujune, of course, and then - much to Vol’jin’s surprise - a larger group of people arrived.

 

“All from the bar,” Rath chirped, gesturing to Inetiel when the blood elf arrived, “Inetiel was holding down the bar for the past hour. Some of Amita’s girl friends decided they wanted to put on a little fireworks show!”

 

“Dat so?” Vol’jin mused, a smile touching his lips, “dat be sounding nice.”

 

“Shouldn’ you be back at de Hold?”

 

Vol’jin resisted against sighing. Of course Jalga would ask that. The rogue was standing a few paces ahead, sand plastered to his feet, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“I s’pose,” Vol’jin muttered, “bu’ I be telling Saurfang I wouldn’ be back fah de rest o’ de aftahnoon. Don’ worry, Jalga, I be at least dat responsible.”

 

Jalga’s eyes narrowed. Vol’jin held his gaze.

 

The rogue backed off out of frustration.

 

Sighing, Vol’jin shook his head, and Rath patted him on the shoulder, “there, there, warchief. I’m sure he’ll warm back up to you eventually.”

 

“I be doubting dat,” Vol’jin said, eyes catching sight of a small goblin boat out on the water. He could make out the telltale form of Amita’s friend Pakhet, along with a dark skinned draenei, and what looked to Vol’jin to be an orcish woman.

 

“Then I hope the antics of Amita’s friends can distract you well enough.”

 

The warchief chuckled, and Rath moved on to chat with Inetiel. Seconds later, the boat dropped anchor, and not a minute after that the first firework went off. Vol’jin assumed Amita had shifted back into her troll form, as he no longer saw a large hydra out of his peripheral vision. It bothered him to realize that he hadn’t even noticed.

 

Every form ahead of Vol’jin was illuminated in brilliant colors as the fireworks went off. Light twinkled off the surface of the water, and at the very least, the display brought a smile to Vol’jin’s lips. It was nice. The air was just beginning to cool, stars were out, the sky was dark.

 

He jolted when someone rested their head in his lap.

 

Long blue hair splayed over his legs, and Vol’jin found he no longer cared to look at the sky, because the colors that danced over Amita’s skin with every crackle were far more intriguing to watch. Tentatively he ran his fingers through her hair; she sighed, seemingly content.

 

“I’m sorry, Vol’jin.”

 

Vol’jin’s hand stilled, “for what?”

 

“Runnin’ off like that,” she kept speaking in Zandali.

 

“It’s… fine, Amita,” Loa, why did he have to hesitate?

 

“I be gettin’ scared.”

 

“Amita, I told you it be fine--”

 

“I thought we might kiss.”

 

Fireworks filled the silence with loud crackling.

 

“... I don’t be ready.”

 

Vol’jin exhaled shakily, but took comfort in threading his fingers through Amita’s hair, “you don’t need to be apologizing, Amita.”

 

She hummed.

 

It was early in the morning when Vol’jin returned to the Hold.

 

* * *

 

The woman in the reflection looked nothing like her.

 

Amita couldn’t  _ believe _ she was going to all this trouble, with the copious amounts of jewellery and the fancy updo, and the  _ dress _ \- she flushed, staring down at her hands.

 

She’d known that neither Flidais nor Pakhet would be entirely pleased with her… decision. So, the druid had gone with Inetiel when he traveled to Gadgetzan. Being away from Durotar had done her some good, and she hoped that perhaps her absence would do Vol’jin some good.

 

Prior to her going with Inetiel, she’d sent two letters. Upon her arrival, Jordis and Tiassale were already present. She’d told them everything that had happened, how Pakhet and Flidais were furious, and how Amita herself was ready.

 

Both night elf and draenei were in firm agreement:

 

“If you’re ready, Amita, then you’re ready. Don’t let how any of  _ us _ feel about the situation dictate what  _ you _ do. Have more faith in yourself and your decisions.”

 

So, here she was. Dressed up and pretty, staring nervously at her reflection. Amita still knew Vol’jin’s schedule like the back of her hand. He had a meeting mid-afternoon and then nothing for the rest of the evening. Amita had spent most of her time so far getting herself ready.

 

Now that she was thinking about it too much, she knew she had to leave. Go to Orgrimmar, look around at the stalls, perhaps visit the auction house, distract her mind from what she was doing before she could overthink it and back out.

 

It had already been a year.

 

She left her home, entangling the door before shifting into a wind serpent and taking flight. Amita thought on the events of the past year as she soared through the clouds. Multiple times she’d had to turn down Jalga because she just  _ couldn’t _ . As much as she wanted to be intimate with  _ someone _ , she couldn’t find it in herself to be intimate with  _ anyone _ .

 

It had to be admitted. She was too heart-set on Vol’jin, even after what had happened. Amita loved him, Loa she loved him, she had to come to terms with the reality that she  _ loved Vol’jin _ .

 

Aimlessly she wandered around the streets of Orgrimmar. It was easy for her to ignore the stares. She looked at clothes and jewellery and trinkets but nothing caught her eye, aside from anything red like Vol’jin’s hair or molten gold like his eyes.

 

Amita’s feet led her to the Hold. Rokhan met her at the top of the staircase near the back, and she shook her head at him.

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why you be here?”

 

“I’ll be in his quarters,” her answer was confident. Rokhan watched her with a look of bemusement, but she didn’t miss the sparkle in his eyes.

 

“You be lookin’ frustrated, fen’di.”

 

“And you be several years too late to be helpin’ me with that, Rokhan. Perhaps you shoulda’ been lettin’ me lie with you all those years ago, back on First Home~”

 

The shadow hunter slapped his thigh, a bark of laughter escaping him. Amita let a smile spread over her lips, though her ears reddened when Rokhan commented, “there be the Amita I know.”

 

“But of course.”

 

“I’ll be givin’ him the message when his meeting be over.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Once inside Vol’jin’s private quarters, she ran her fingers over the sheets of the bed - then smushed her face into the pillow. A peal of laughter was muffled by the object. She rolled over, the bangles on her wrists jingling together. There was a stupid smile on her lips that she couldn’t make go away, no matter  _ how _ hard she tried.

 

The room was filled with Vol’jin’s scent, of course. For several minutes she just lay on the bed, basking in everything familiar that had become so foreign. Her bangles jingled again as she moved to sit up.

 

She was glad to note that Vol’jin was at least keeping his quarters orderly. She had always been glad to note that despite the obvious sadness and pain in his eyes when she often shied away that he was still taking care of himself.

 

A short laugh left her. Vol’jin would be. He was the Warchief, he had appearances to keep up.

 

Quick footsteps made Amita’s ear flick. Her green eyes shifted to the door. It was thrown open.

 

“... you  _ do  _ be here.”

 

Vol’jin looked flustered. Amita found herself shaking her head, running her fingers through some strands of her hair as she looked down at her feet.

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

The door shut; Amita stood. She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress before raising her gaze to Vol’jin’s face again. He looked like he was in disbelief, and she was bemused to note that he didn’t have his usual warpaint on.

 

“I didn’t think you would be going to a meetin’ without your paints on,” she mused, gesturing to her face. His ears flicked down, and he remained stubbornly by the door.

 

“Woke up late. Didn’t be having the time,” he averted his gaze, like he was trying to look everywhere but at her. Amita wandered toward his desk. She ran her fingers along the smooth wood, then started taking off her bangles one by one.

 

“Why you be here?” Vol’jin asked. Amita hummed, moving on to take the bangles off her right wrist. She shifted her gaze to Vol’jin. He was unarmored, wearing a simple sash around his shoulder and waist, along with a simple pair of pants. His meeting must have been with important troll heads in the Darkspear. He wouldn’t dress so comfortably if he had been around the other Horde leaders.

 

She let her eyes rove over him. His fingers twitched, and she could see the hope that sparked in his eyes. A smile pulled at her lips.

 

“Oh, you know,” Amita raised her arms, pulling the pins out of her hair. She let it cascade over her shoulders, blushing under Vol’jin’s heavy gaze, “I thought it only be fair to be comin’ to be seein’  _ you _ for once.”

 

Amita turned to face him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “since you always be goin’ out of your way to be comin’ to see me.”

 

He knew she could see the frustration in his face. Rokhan hadn’t made things any better with his antics, and now Amita wasn’t giving him truthful answers. It didn’t help that her taking down her hair or removing the heavy bangles from her wrists were getting the Warchief all riled up.

 

And now she was slowly making her way toward him. Her eyes were fixed on his, and Vol’jin found he couldn’t look away.

 

“Why you  _ really _ be here?”

 

Amita slammed him against the door, her fingers tangling in his beard. She kissed Vol’jin like he was air, and she was drowning - and before he could fully process the eagerness of her lips, Amita’s tongue was sliding along his. Certain fingers slid down Vol’jin’s throat to trace along his collarbone. Those knowing hands came together to run along his chest, long nails catching in the loose cloth he wore.

 

And that was just the thing. Amita knew how to touch him. She knew  _ exactly _ where her hands should linger, where her fingers should caress - she knew every millimeter of his body. She knew how to turn him on, and Loa, was Amita turning him  _ on _ .

 

Vol’jin’s chest was burning. He raised his hands to Amita’s neck, and he jerked her head back. The gasp was mutual. Amita’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and Vol’jin blinked rapidly, in some attempt to clear his vision.

 

_ I have to be sure. _

 

The male intended to speak. He raised his gaze to Amita’s face, chest still heaving. Those green eyes were wide like a doe’s, lips quivering, cheeks dark with blush. And it was spreading.

 

Oh, was it  _ spreading _ . Down her neck. Over her shoulders. Even the tips of Amita’s ears. Vol’jin would be a fool to question her about her intentions - because he knew her. He knew that blush.

 

Amita set a hand against his cheek, her breaths becoming more even than they had been. She leaned in, and Vol’jin held her firmly at a distance, pressing his forehead against hers. He couldn’t find his voice. He hoped his eyes would ask the questions he couldn’t put into words:

 

_ Are you sure, are you sure, are you ready, is this what you want? _

 

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his sash. The hand on his cheek shifted to firmly grip the back of his neck. Vol’jin searched her face desperately for  _ any _ sign of affirmation from her, and any sign that he should let her go, that he should push her away.

 

Amita’s thigh slid between his legs; Vol’jin’s breath hitched at the friction. Two words slipped over her lips on a breathless sigh;

 

“Yes, please.”

 

Those words were the flame. They lit the fuse, and once Vol’jin processed them, there were fireworks. He crushed his lips to hers. Her hand slid into his mane of hair, fingers clenched tightly in the fiery strands; his fingers pressed into the flesh of her neck in return.

 

There was a tugging at the sash, and Vol’jin stepped forward as Amita stepped back. She lead him where she wanted him to go. He couldn’t get enough of her lips. Every little taste of her tongue only made him want more. Each kiss was punctuated by quick breaths.

 

The sash was the first article of clothing to drift to the floor.

 

Vol’jin refused to relinquish his hold on Amita’s head. He didn’t want her to turn away. Three months had been difficult enough.

 

A  _ year _ without this had been nigh  _ impossible _ to manage.

 

Amita slipped a finger between their lips when she leaned back for a gasp of air.

 

“Vol’jin,” she murmured, “I hope you be plannin’ on givin’ those breaths back.”

 

A smirk pulled at Vol’jin’s lips - he leaned in to kiss her again, gripping her wrist firmly to pull her hand down.

 

“No, and if you don’t mind, I’ll be stealing some more.”

 

She laughed softly - and right now, everything about her was soft. Her skin, her lips, her hair… the muffled gasps, the fabric that made up her dress.

 

Sharp claws ripped into that fabric. Amita grabbed Vol’jin’s wrist, then she nipped at his tusk to distract him.

 

“You can take it off,” Amita purred, “but don’t go tearin’ it, boy.”

 

Vol’jin growled in response. Another nip to his tusk, and he complied, unhooking his claws from the fabric. Amita moved to run her hands up his chest, her lips pressing against his cheek. He hadn’t even realized that he was blushing until her cool tusks touched his skin. The contrast was stark. 

 

In turn, he pressed his mouth against her neck - her skin was hot. Vol’jin could tell from how she shuddered that the contrast between the coolness of his tusks and the heat of her flesh was the same.

 

And then he was self-conscious about the size of his tusks, smaller than hers now, even if both his tusks were finally the same size.

 

He certainly liked how much more easily she could give attention to them, though.

 

Fingers tangled in Vol’jin’s hair. Amita pulled his head back, forcing him to look at her. On instinct Vol’jin lipped her chin. A purr left her, and for quite some time, Amita simply gazed at him.

 

Vol’jin couldn’t stand it. He stood up straight, cupping the back of her head in his hand, curling his fingers around thick locks. The tight grip gave him the control over Amita that he wanted. She was putty in Vol’jin’s hands when he held her like this.

 

He pressed his lips to hers, then her tusk, then her cheek. Amita relinquished her own hold on his hair, her hand slipping down his neck. Vol’jin moved on. Again he pressed his lips to her neck, and - pulling her head back further - he left a trail of kisses down the column of her throat. Having smaller tusks in this moment was a  _ blessing _ . He could reach parts of her body that he couldn’t when his tusks were more impressive.

 

Which meant there was little reason for him  _ not _ to take his time, teeth scraping over her skin. Amita’s nails dragged along his shoulders. He left bites in his wake, nudging the straps of her dress off her shoulder.

 

Loa it was difficult to leave the bites only in places she could cover up later.

 

A quiet moan escaped her when he experimentally ran his right tusk up her neck. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut her skin, but it left a mark. Easily healed. Vol’jin pressed his lips to the welt, tongue snaking out to taste her skin. Cold metal reminded him that she was wearing the jewellery she so fancied, and his blood rushed down - as if it hadn’t done that already.

 

Amita’s breath hitched when Vol’jin wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her flush against him. To feel how aroused he was, his hips pushing into hers, caused the fire in her belly to intensify. She swiftly moved her hands to grab him by the waist of his pants, jerking him forward until Amita lost her balance.

 

Her landing was soft. Vol’jin’s lips were back on hers within seconds of him recovering from the surprise of falling onto the bed. Amita bit back a mewl when Vol’jin started rocking his hips into hers.

 

Eager, wasn't he?

 

She let her mind wonder if his eagerness would be able to match hers. For now, Amita allowed Vol’jin to roll himself against her. Every motion of his hips sent sparks through her. She splayed her palms over his lower back, nails catching on the waist of his pants. 

 

Nothing felt more  _ right _ than this.

 

Deft hands ran up her thighs, pushing the skirt of Amita’s dress up to pool at her waist. A keen mewl escaped her lips. The fabric of Vol’jin’s clothing was rough against her smooth inner thighs. He made the heat pooling in her belly all the more unbearable when he pressed his palm flat against her stomach.

 

In retaliation, Amita smoothed her hands up Vol’jin’s chest. She cupped both hands around his neck, pulling his head down so she could claim his lips.

 

Even  _ if _ he was the Warchief, Amita had no intention of letting him have control, not of this. She raised one of her legs, letting her knee brush against his ribs. Vol’jin shuddered at the contact; Amita slipped her toe under the waist of his pants. His lips seemed to twitch in confusion.

 

With the help of some roots, Amita slipped the rest of Vol’jin’s clothes away. She tipped her head back against the bed, watching him. His fingers clenched in the sheets as Amita let her fingers caress his newly exposed skin. She enjoyed seeing the small twitches in his expression when she let the roots slide slowly to the floor - and the flutter of his eyes when she lightly traced along his length with her nail.  _ That _ made her drag her teeth over her lower lip.

 

_ “Amita _ ,” Vol’jin breathed, one hand pulling at her dress because he had to use the other one to keep himself hovering over her.

 

“Yes~?” Amita purred in reply, her voice warm. Vol’jin clenched his teeth, eyes burning with desire. Amita swallowed thickly.

 

She knocked her arm into his inner elbow. Startled, Vol’jin let his arm bend, and Amita wrapped one hand around his wrist, placing the other against his shoulder. With one powerful shove, she had him on his back, her knees pressing into his sides.

 

Amita licked her lips, hungry. Hungry for  _ him _ , hungry for how he filled her. Her silken dress settled over her legs, and his, and she gave Vol’jin a moment’s reprieve to recover from her actions.

 

He made to sit up, but Amita shoved him back down, her hands firm against his shoulders.

 

“No,” she said hoarsely, letting her hands drag down his chest and abdomen as she sat upright. Her clothed lips settled eagerly along his throbbing length.

 

“You stay down,” she managed, pulling her thoughts away from the sensation between her legs. Amita tried to focus her muddled mind elsewhere, trying to give herself a chance to breathe - but Loa she  _ wanted _ him. Her body was hot, so hot that even her jewellery felt warm to the touch.

 

And it reminded her - reminded her of all the trouble she had gone to with this unnecessarily formal attire of hers. The pretty, silken dress, the abundance of jewellery, the initial up-do…

 

Amita was treating it like it was the first time they’d  _ ever _ had sex. Like it was some special moment, and as Vol’jin watched her gather up the skirt of her dress, he found himself agreeing with the unspoken reasoning. It  _ was _ special, particularly to  _ Amita _ . This  _ meant something _ to her.

 

Like it meant  _ everything _ to him - and she couldn’t take off her dress fast enough. Every centimeter she exposed was a feast for his eyes. He wondered if his impatient gaze was leaving trails of fire over her skin, and when she finally pulled her dress over her head and tossed it to the floor, he reached for the gold lavalier dangling between her breasts. The decorative beads were autumn colors, like his hair; like his eyes.

 

His actions were stilled only by Amita shaking out her waves of blue hair. She combed her fingers through the thick locks.

 

Vol’jin tugged on the gold chains, encouraging her to lean closer to him. He  _ had _ to touch her, had to feel the curves of her breasts. His fingers curled around one globe, thumb brushing over her erect nipple. A puff of air passed her lips, and her nails dragged over his abdomen. He pulled on the golden chains again, clenching his teeth together when she rubbed her still clothed sex over his again.

 

“Come closer,” he breathed, voice hoarse. Her green eyes were glazed over as if she were intoxicated, and she stared at him in relative silence, breathing uneven.

 

“Let me touch you, please.”

 

Amita obliged, leaning over him. Her hair tickled Vol’jin’s skin, cascading over his shoulders and curling on his chest. He ran his hands up her sides, caressing the skin beneath her breasts with his thumbs. Amita shuddered.

 

The tips of his claws skimmed over her skin. Trails of lightning from the base of her throat to the nipple of one breast. Vol’jin hooked a claw around the ring there, tugging gently. Amita arched her back, rubbing the pad of her finger along the tip of his erection. He growled, moving his hand to trace around the edges of the heart-shaped halo that was there. He followed the line of her jewellery, tracing just below it. Short, pleased sighs dripped off her lips.

 

Reaching up again, Vol’jin slipped a finger under one of the golden rings that circled Amita’s neck. He pulled, encouraging Amita to lean back over him. His molten eyes were distracted by her lips.

 

With her closer again, he ran his thumb over her swollen lips. Loa, had he kissed her  _ that _ hard? They felt tender to the touch. Bruised.

 

He gripped her chin, pulling her in. He pursed his lips against hers, and for a moment, forgot about all the thoughts nagging in the back of his mind. Amita let her lips rest against his, her hips sliding slowly forward, then back, and he could have sworn it was so she could feel the puffs of breath that escaped him with every brush.

 

There was no helping the groan when Amita rose on her knees, only to press her hands against the sheets so she could lean over him. Vol’jin missed her warmth already. She kissed her way along his cheekbone, stopping to nibble on his earlobe.

 

She seemed to enjoy the moan he let out, because she started nudging the soft skin behind his ear with her nose. He traced his claws up her spine in retaliation. Shivers wracked her body, and this only encouraged him to trace more random designs over her bare skin.

 

“Amita,” he breathed, raggedly, because she was licking and biting her way across his collarbone and down his chest.

 

“If you,” she laved her tongue up his throat, and spoke against the spot right below his jawbone, “think I’ll be lettin’ you get away with burning your name into my skin, without me returning the favor…”

 

She pushed herself back up on her arms, her eyes emitting a soft glow. He’d never seen them do that before. It entranced him.

 

“Then you be wrong.”

 

Vol’jin threw his head back when she sunk her teeth into his neck. He dug his claws into her sides, enticing a hiss out of her. She nipped at his ear, and  _ damn it _ he was  _ aching _ . The consistent feel of her skin on his, and the lack of heat against his throbbing member was starting to get to him.

 

“I’ll be making sure my name be written across your skin like the stars be written across the skies,” Amita murmured,  _ finally _ sitting up. The way her hair dragged across his body as she did nearly made Vol’jin dizzy. It was a near foreign sensation, and her hair was so silky…

 

A growl was drawn out of him when he felt the rough texture of her entangling roots again.

 

“Write your name, then,” Vol’jin found himself saying huskily, fixing her with an intense stare. Amita dragged her teeth over her lip. The roots fell away.

 

Loa she liked to make use of those things, didn’t she? He’d always known how adept she was with the spell, but to think she’d use it like  _ this _ . It was a thought that had never crossed Vol’jin’s mind.

 

Not that he minded her using them to remove the last piece of clothing she wore.

 

As he watched, Amita slipped her hand between her legs. Her eyes fluttered. Vol’jin made red lines down her thighs, irritated that  _ he _ wasn’t the one doing the touching. Her hand was dripping - and then she had the audacity to run that hand along his length. By the Loa, he was going to go  _ mad. _

 

“I be thinking that you be ready for me,” she purred, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

 

“And you?” Vol’jin rasped, shifting his hands to grip her hips. Her brows narrowed back, and he felt her wrap her hand around him. She guided him to her center - but not before rubbing his tip between those wet lips a few times, the tease that she was.

 

“I--... I-I  _ need _ you,” Amita stammered. She bit her lip, and Vol’jin closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. It had been  _ so _ long. He had to take a moment to focus on the sensation of being inside her: warm, moist,  _ incredible _ really. Her breaths were heavy, as if she couldn’t contain herself. Vol’jin opened his eyes to drink in the sight of her.

 

Amita had pressed a hand to his stomach, fingers splayed. Her eyes were closed in utter bliss, one shaking finger touching her lips as her mouth was partially open - and as she started slowly rocking her hips, her teeth latched onto her lower lip.

 

“Don’t bite your lip,” Vol’jin whined, dropping his hands away from her hips so he could grab at her jewellery again. Her body jolted, and she hurriedly leaned forward. Amita’s eyes were furrowed in confusion, but he drew a moan out of her when he caught her lip between his teeth.

 

“I want to do that.”

 

Amita hummed. She would let Vol’jin have this. He nibbled at one of her tusks, and she sighed, content. She had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be this intimate with someone. To feel Vol’jin slide in and out with every rock of her hips, to hear the slick sounds, the soft moans… Loa, she had forgotten. Her body had forgotten.

 

She pursed her lips against his, then set her hands against his chest so she could sit back up. Amita couldn’t resist tossing her head, a smile crossing her lips when she heard Vol’jin chuckle.

 

Damn, Vol’jin had forgotten how much she liked to put on a show. Sweeping her hands through her luscious hair, running her fingers down her chest, batting her eyes at him all the while never stopping the motion of her hips. All he could do was run his hands along her thighs, and in the dim light the thin layer of sweat that covered her body gave her skin a beautiful sheen.

 

Vol’jin wanted to believe her.

 

He wanted to believe that this really  _ was _ what she wanted, and he closed his eyes,  _ willing _ himself to accept it. Maybe it was brought on because he couldn’t ask, even if she had given him an answer. Loa she was circling her hips now. Maybe if he could just focus on that, on  _ this _ , on the feeling; he grasped her hips desperately.

 

Amita noticed that there was something off about Vol’jin’s expression. His brows were pulled back, like he were still…

 

His fingers twitched as she slowed. Molten eyes stared at her, unreadable, as her hips came to a halt.

 

For a moment, Amita gazed at him, catching her breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Vol’jin kept his hands on her hips - but his grip was loose. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths - and inside her, he throbbed.

 

Amita leaned over him, her hair falling around his shoulders and face like a curtain. Vol’jin’s breath hitched.

 

“You don’t be believing me.”

 

Vol’jin flinched. Averted his gaze. Amita pressed a hand flatly against his chest, and his eyes came back to her.

 

“You don’t be believing that this be what I want,” she continued, her voice a soothing whisper. His eyes tightened.

 

“I… I believe you, Amita, but…”

 

She leaned down, running her nails along his cheek and temple. Her forehead pressed firmly against his. He couldn’t escape her gaze when she was this close.

 

“Vol’jin, I forgive you.”

 

He stared at her. Shock and disbelief colored his expression. Vol’jin’s eyes were wide, muscles tense.

 

Then there was solace.

 

The Warchief’s shoulders relaxed. The worry that had creased his face before was lifted away with her words. Amita straightened. Her eyes fluttered - and it was only natural. When she’d leaned over him, he’d slipped out of her a little. Settling back against him enticed a sigh past her lips--

 

Vol’jin’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her chest flush against his. He’d sat up, and was pressing his lips earnestly to hers.

 

Amita had hardly been able to get out a gasp his movements had been so swift.

 

And in this position it was… difficult to grind against him. She supposed it didn’t matter. Reaching a climax didn’t matter. Amita wrapped her legs around him, her body relaxing into the new position. His breath was hot against her lips, their faces close. She breathed his breaths like he did hers. Got lost in his eyes like a bird searching for land but finding it in the golden sun.

 

She slid her palm up the back of his neck, fingers clenching tightly in the shorter hairs. She crushed her lips to his, like a branding iron because now that she had him, she wanted to make sure she kept him this time - to have him again and again and again. His claws dug into her thighs, inciting sharp pain but drawing a keen whine out of her.

 

Vol’jin decided he liked the sound. He curled his fingers around her rear, pulling at her skin - then he let his claws scour marks over her flesh. She gasped into his mouth, her hand still tightly clenched in his hair.

 

He couldn’t tell if the heartbeat throbbing against his chest belonged to her or belonged to him. It was powerful. Desperate. Eager for a place to put its love and finding it only in another drum that was just as powerful and just as desperate.

 

Keeping one hand between Amita’s shoulder blades, Vol’jin let his other slide down her stomach, catching on her jewellery for a moment. She pulled away from his lips, breathing in sharply. She shifted, unhooking her legs from around him so she could sit on her knees.

 

Good.

 

It would be easier to rub his thumb against the sensitive bud between her legs.

 

The druid jolted at the first stroke. He could hear the cry die in her throat. Of course she didn’t want to be  _ loud _ . He thumbed the spot again.

 

“ _ Vol’ _ jin--” Amita gasped, burying her face in his neck. Vol’jin fisted his hand in her hair, jerking her away. Another stroke along her clit brought another cry from her lips. Her body flushed further. He ran his tongue up her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat. He rubbed his thumb against her again, humming when she clenched around him.

 

Her breaths were coming out in short pants, and the more Vol’jin focused on stroking that small bud of nerves, the more Amita mewled. The more she ground her hips into his. His body was beginning to tense. Pleasure shot up his spine every time her sopping core clenched around him.

 

_ Sing for me _ .

 

He sunk his teeth into her shoulder, cursing against her skin. Iron lingered on his tongue. She moaned - loudly, wantonly - clenching her fingers in his hair and drawing lines up his back. He growled - raggedly, possessively - pressing his lips against her throat and pushing her hips harder against his.

 

_ I want to hear you sing. _

 

It was riveting.

 

Vol’jin’s name poured past Amita’s lips like a mantra; like he were a god and her mouth was created to praise him. And Amita’s name spilled from Vol’jin’s lips like a hallelujah; like the words to a love song he’d been singing to her long before he’d known what the words meant.

 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, gasping against his neck. In turn he wrapped his arms around her back, holding her flush against him; burying his nose in her hair.

 

Loa, Amita would never be able to admit that she loved how Vol’jin filled her. She loosened her hold on his shoulders just enough to tip her head back and find his lips with hers. It was a tender kiss. It allowed Amita to breathe through the flames that still rolled through her body. It gave her the chance to cool off, as much as feeling Vol’jin inside her was going to get her aroused all over again. 

 

Several seconds passed. Her lips simply rested against his.

 

A minute passed. Amita wrapped her arms around his torso, lowering her head with a breath to the nook between Vol’jin’s neck and shoulder. In turn, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lower back, leaning his head against hers.

 

He wasn’t sure when they separated, or when they fell asleep. Time was lost to him.

 

It was even more lost when Vol’jin opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by dim candles. For a moment, he was lost.

 

And then a smirk spread over his lips.

 

Bwonsamdi sat ahead, displeased. Vol’jin couldn’t stop a chuckle, and when then candles erupted into flames he laughed.

 

“She still loves me,” he found himself saying, grinning from ear to ear, “she  _ still loves me.” _

 

Vol’jin was jolted out of the realm, chased by a vicious snarl. Warmth at his side anchored him. He sighed in his sleep.

 

Waking up next to Amita was like a dream come true. The sunlight illuminated her form in a halo, and Vol’jin pushed the blankets down her side so he could trace images over her skin. Amita shifted in her sleep, sighing. Loa, she was  _ beautiful _ .

 

All too soon he was looking into her eyes.

 

“Mornin’,” he murmured, brushing her hair out of her face.

 

“Mmm,” she pressed a finger to his lips. Her smile was small, “mornin’.”

 

Silence drifted between them. He was relieved to find that Amita was content. Her expression was relaxed, fingers absently drawing designs over his chest. She looked back up at him, eyes filled with adoration.

 

Vol’jin rolled over her pressing his mouth firmly to hers. His heart felt like it was trying to beat out of his chest. Loa damn it, it was too early in the morning to be getting  _ this _ worked up over something as simple as the look in Amita’s eyes!

 

Her cheeks were dusted with a light blush when pulled away to look at her.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words rolled off his tongue. His thoughts were clouded, and as Amita’s eyes widened and her blush deepened, he felt as though his heart would leap out of his chest. Perhaps that was why Vol’jin had said it. Because it was something his heart and his mind agreed upon unanimously. He didn’t need to spare it a second thought.

 

It felt _ right _ . It felt  _ true _ .

 

Amita seemed at a loss for words, and now the beat of his heart grew nervous. Her eyes shifted to the left and the right, touching on his gaze every now and then. Shy. Blushing.

 

She cupped her hands around his cheeks, pulling his head down. Her lips touched his, and Vol’jin’s eyes widened when she spoke against his lips, her own eyes closed tightly.

 

I love you too.

 

The words were articulated so perfectly that there was no way Vol’jin could misinterpret them. Amita had gone back to looking everywhere but at him, her blush spreading down her neck and over her shoulders. She was nibbling on the knuckle of her finger, and Vol’jin let his weight rest against one forearm while he raised his other hand to grasp hers.

 

Amita’s eyes flicked to his the moment their hands touched.

 

“Then be  _ mine _ ,” he breathed, letting his forehead lean against hers. Amita inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering.

 

“I was always yours, Vol’jin,” she murmured, caressing his chest, “ _ always _ .”

 

“Good,” he kissed the back of her hand, “then stay here.”

 

Amita flushed, “Vol’jin, I can’t… just suddenly be staying here.”

 

“Why not?”

 

A sigh left her, “I don’t wanna’ be cooped up in the Hold.”

 

He frowned - then he realized.

 

“Oh,” a chuckle escaped him, “that’s not what I be meaning. I forgot we be in the Hold.”

 

Amita slapped his chest and he rolled off her, laughing, “how could you be forgettin’!?”

 

“You,” he managed to say between laughs, “you be distracting me.”

 

“Well all the more reason for me to be leaving!” Amita announced, pulling the sheets with her as she flounced off the bed. Vol’jin grabbed at the end of the sheets, struggling to overcome this ridiculous laughing fit he’d gone into. He pulled too roughly, and Amita was jerked back into his chest, and the result was both tumbling to the floor in a heap of flailing limbs.

 

Vol’jin was  _ still _ laughing.

 

“Stop  _ laughin’!” _ Amita exclaimed, her face red and her eyes glittering with mirth. A smile tugged incessantly at her lips despite her attempts to frown deeply at the man under her.

 

The Warchief shook his head, “can’t do it.”

 

“Why not?!”

 

“Too happy,” Vol’jin gazed at her through crinkled eyes, “you’re gonna’ have to be making me.”

 

Amita’s attempt at a scowl sent Vol’jin into another fit of laughter. The weight of her lips against his stemmed his chuckles. He swept a hand into her hair.

 

“I could be getting used to this,” he murmured against her mouth.

 

“Me too.”

 

She sat up, staring at him for a moment before rising to her feet. The sheets rustled as they crumpled to the floor. Vol’jin pushed himself up on his arms, watching as Amita reached under her hair, no doubt to take off her jewellery. Her feet were leading her to the offshoot bathroom in Vol’jin’s private quarters.

 

Soon enough Vol’jin entered as well, eyeing the golden decorations that lay in a neat line on the widest part of the sink. The water was already running. He took a moment to relieve himself - then joined Amita in the shower, of course.

 

“Didn’ hear ya ask,” she muttered when he started combing his fingers through her thick hair. Vol’jin hummed.

 

“You be right, so! Can I be washing your hair?”

 

Amita’s shoulders shook with a laugh.

 

“Only if I be gettin’ to return the favor.”

 

Late morning came far too quickly for either of their liking.

 

Amita was content to be mostly curled up against Vol’jin’s chest while he looked over some reports - and it was the easiest thing for her to do without getting in his way. She’d been huddled up on the bed originally, having fashioned a spare sheet into some kind of dress she could wear temporarily. Vol’jin joined her, and in the end she chose to lie in his lap.

 

At least from here, she could trace her fingers over his collarbone, and trace over the scar on his neck. A short giggle left her when she could feel vibrations against the pad of her fingers.

 

“Careful, Warchief, you really shouldn’t be purrin’~”

 

Vol’jin looked down at her, his scowl offset by his smirk, “you be one to talk.”

 

“I be a snake,” she chirped, pushing herself up so she could nuzzle her face against his neck. This time his throat vibrated with a growl; Amita pressed a hand close to his pelvis. She laved her tongue along his skin, paying special attention to his scar.

 

“We  _ don’t _ purr.”

 

Whispering in his ear made him shiver. Then Amita found herself straddling Vol’jin’s lap, because he had grabbed her makeshift dress, yanking and pulling until she had moved herself to where he wanted her. He fisted his hand in her hair, jerking her head away from his neck. Amita found herself blushing furiously under his gaze. His eyes were smoldering.

 

“Amita, you’re going to be getting me all worked up,” he murmured, right against her lips. Amita sighed into the kiss.

 

“Mm, will that be causin’ a problem?” she asked, cupping her hands around his neck.

 

There was hesitance. Amita drew away. Her eyes tightened as she scrutinized Vol’jin’s face - soon she was doing a mental checklist--

 

“No.”

 

Vol’jin placed a hand on the swell of her rear, then pushed her down against him. Amita made to protest - was there going to be a meeting later, is that why he had hesitated? - but he pulled her head back, fist tight in her hair, and ran his teeth and tongue along her throat.

 

“Not gonna’ be a problem.”

 

The knock at the door seemed to disagree.

 

Amita’s eyes shot open and she - of course - attempted to scramble off of Vol’jin. Stubbornly, the Warchief kept his hold on her. She’d managed to flop over his lap while he was busy scowling at the door.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You be up?”

 

If her eyes could get any bigger, they did just then,  _ oooh no no no no NO. _

 

Vol’jin grappled with her, a smile pulling at his lips, “yeah I--”

 

Amita kicked relentlessly against the bed until Vol’jin swept her up in his arms, wrapping one arm tightly over her legs. Loa she was just glad he’d opted to put on a pair of pants.

 

“I just be a bit preoccupied!”

 

“YOU DO NOT--!!”

 

She immediately ceased her struggling, face and ears bright red. She’d clapped her hands over her mouth, and oh, did part of Amita just want to either elbow Vol’jin in the chest or turn into a hydra and sit on him. His entire body was shaking with silent laughter.

 

Rokhan had thrown open the door seconds after her outburst, eyes crinkled with delight.

 

“So?? One o’ you gonna’ be explainin’ this to me?” he inquired, voice  _ far _ too pleased. Like he had been waiting for this his  _ whole life _ . On top of that, Rokhan was looking between the two of them expectantly.

 

“Well?”

 

“Rokhan, can you be reminding him-- oh?” Vanira appeared at the older shadow hunter’s elbow, her eyes flicking between the two trolls on the bed, “what be this?”

 

“Possibly what we been waitin’ for?” Rokhan said, looking at Vanira. Her ears perked up.

 

“Possibly?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

Amita made a series of shushing sounds. Part of her appreciated Vol’jin’s hesitance to inform them - but then he stood with her in his arms, and when he kissed her under the eye Amita was positive her hair was turning red.

 

“Yeah, we made up,” a gentle smile crossed Vol’jin’s lips, “so you can be stopping your staring.”

 

Vanira raised a brow as Vol’jin set Amita on her feet. She hadn’t expected him to leave it at that.

 

_ I wonder if he be satisfied with that _ .

 

“And?”

 

_ … because Vanira certainly don’t be. _

 

“And what?” Vol’jin feigned innocence. Vanira crossed her arms over her chest, her expression belying that she was about to start one of her famous interrogations. To Amita’s relief, Rokhan grabbed her by the bicep.

 

“Don’t you go forgettin’ you got a meeting in twenty,” Rokhan purred, pulling Vanira with him as he backed out of the doorway, “maybe you be wantin’ to put on some more clothes, no?”

 

Both Amita and Vol’jin flushed, and Rokhan dragged Vanira away, chuckling ceaselessly to himself. Vol’jin stalked out of the room after Amita got herself properly dressed, leaving the druid to chase after him with parts of his armor.

 

“Vol’jin! Ya don’ even be half presentable!” Amita hissed. The male grumbled, but let Amita fuss over him,  _ pretty sure he  _ **_likes_ ** _ it anyway. _

 

“Fah fuck’s sake.”

 

“Don’ curse, wassa.”

 

“‘Don’ curse wassa’,” she repeated as mockingly as she could before slapping him on his bare shoulder. He chuckled, and she pouted, “ya be de Warchief! An’ ya be havin’ a meetin’, ya can’t jus’ show up wearin’ nothin’ bu’pants!”

 

Amita tugged at his arm, and Vol’jin held it level for her so she could fasten his pauldron over it.

 

“Dere,” she announced, then fussed over his hair, preening it this way and that way.

 

Vol’jin couldn’t help smiling, really. Sure, Amita had fussed over him before, but that she slid into it so easily after they were  _ finally  _ honest with each other made it clear to him. This was something she had wanted, just as much as he had.

 

She stood back, looking satisfied with her work. Vol’jin reached out and grasped her hand as she nodded her head to herself.

 

“Ah--”

 

“Tank you, wassa,” he murmured against the back of her hand. Amita stared at him. A bigger smile spread over his lips.

 

“Wassa.”

 

“Y-yes?”

 

He could feel his eyes glitter - and then she lit up with blush when she realized what was going on. She stumbled over her words, a mix of Zandali and Orcish and Common.

 

“Warchiiiief.”

 

The door to the office was thrown open. Vol’jin froze, turning a fierce gaze to Gallywix. The goblin had also paused in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise.

 

Vol’jin was still holding Amita’s hand, after all. He glanced at her for a brief moment, his heart sinking into his stomach to see the panic that was spread over her features. Everything had been perfect and now… now it was all falling apart again.

 

Thanks to Gallywix’s filling the doorway, the other Horde leaders were given the chance to arrive as well. Naturally, they stared between the two trolls. Baine looked especially miffed. The pout he sent Vol’jin’s way nearly made the Warchief laugh,  _ you be wanting to know the more personal aspects of my life that badly? I guess it be fair, after Sylvanas be learning I be breaking my tusks before you did. _

 

“Well, don’ jus’ be standing dere,” he said, then started when Amita jerked her hand out of his.

 

“I-I’ll be goin’,” she stammered, eyes flicking everywhere. As Vol’jin’s compatriots filed into the office, Amita hurried toward the door, her ears low. Vol’jin balled one hand into a fist. He could already feel their curious gazes, and was well aware that this time, he wouldn’t be able to get away with  _ not _ giving an explanation.

 

He lurched out of his seat without another thought. A quick step in and out of the shadows had him at Amita’s side before she could escape into the hallway.

 

“Amita, wait.”

 

One hand wrapped around her bicep, and the other caught her by the chin. Amita’s eyes were wide and her cheeks a furious red.

 

Vol’jin kissed her, as chastely as he could. When he pulled back, Amita didn’t look upset - just embarrassed. Her face and ears and neck were red.

 

“I want them to know,” he whispered in Zandali, letting his hand drift down her arm to grasp hers, “please”.

 

Amita shifted her weight from side to side, glancing into the office, then down the hall, then back into the office, and the others were watching the exchange with great interest.

 

She whined, and then hid her face against Vol’jin’s chest. This prompted a chuckle out of Lor’themar and Baine, and a whistle out of Jastor. Sylvanas seemed to be pleased, and Ji was grinning broadly. Vol’jin himself fought against a smile.

 

“Okay um… I… at de um… house… birds…” Amita pulled back, pouting up at Vol’jin. He released her after running his hand through her hair.

 

“I’ll see you dere, latah.”

 

Amita nodded her head, and Vol’jin’s heart soared when he caught sight of a gentle smile crossing her lips before she shifted into a wind serpent and shot off down the hall.

 

With a breath, he turned back to the office, gesturing in the direction Amita had gone, “dat be enough explanation?”

 

The group gave a collective affirmative, each one settling down into their seats. Vol’jin dipped his head and pulled the door shut.

 

 


End file.
